Serpent
by ZRSFizzyBongs
Summary: The Serpent sees the school through another's eyes. What happened at Hogwarts through the eyes of someone else?
1. Chapter 1

_The second war against the Dark Lord Voldemort, commonly known as the Phoenix War, is by no means the longest waged in the history of the wizarding world. Lasting only a year and a month, it is five years below the average duration of our wars. However, the devastation caused by this conflict was proportionally greater than any war ever known. It is estimated that, with the collapse of the trade and banking systems, the wizarding world sustained an economic loss of 680 million Galleons after the hostilities began. The cost to human lives is just as staggering…_

…_Reports compiled at the end of the war state that 20% of Britain's wizarding world alone had perished, while 27% of the remaining population were left destitute…_

…_Economists and historians agree that, had the war lasted one more season, it is likely there would not have been enough left upon which to rebuild._

_- Excerpts from "The Phoenix War," **Encyclopedia Arcana**_

_The year prior to what people generally call the Phoenix War was a grand exercise in self-delusion. That year, despite dozens of testimonies from our own children at Hogwarts, despite the disappearances of a number of Muggles, and despite the sighting of the Dark Mark in the sky during the Quidditch World Cup, we had successfully convinced ourselves that the Dark Lord's return was just a yarn to scare children with, that his cohorts the Death Eaters had long been reduced to a mere rabble we occassionally read about in the Daily Prophet. We never dreamed **he**would actually come back, like a recurring nightmare, to smash our grand illusion of a peaceful, orderly world..._

…_Only Albus Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix gathered together and stood guard at our frontiers. They knew that the peace was only Voldemort's sweet-tongued lie, that he lay hidden like a serpent by the foot path. They alone anticipated his declaration of war._

_The days turned into weeks, and weeks melted into months, and still they waited. Dumbledore worried more as time dragged on: he would later write that his sleep was plagued with dark dreams. So he kept to himself for a long time, high in his tower above Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and thought of a plan._

_It was two summers after the ill-fated Tri-Wizard Tournament when Dumbledore finally broke his silence. And a few days later, as if from some hidden signal, so did Voldemort._

_- Excerpts from Ciaran McCallow's **Seasons in Shadow: Essays on the War Against The Dark Lord**_

Chapter 1 : Choices and Changes

It was early morning of September 1st. After finishing a light breakfast, Albus Dumbledore seated himself behind the oak desk in his quarters. There was much work to be done today. His guest would be arriving soon, and important decisions had to be made before the day was done.

And of course, there was still the matter of Harry Potter. Today he would meet with the boy and tell him the plan he had been working on for more than a year. Today, he would ask Harry to perform a task for him. He did not want to ask him this, because he knew the boy would say yes.

"Which is why I'm here procrastinating," Dumbledore muttered, leaning back and shutting his eyes, "instead of calling him first thing in the morning."

Still, there was no other choice. Dumbledore still had to ask, for no one else would do for what he had planned.

He smoothed his beard as he went over the details as he had countless times before. When he opened his eyes, a good hour had passed. As before, he concluded his scheme had only a modest chance of success. No matter how well he planned and how good his research, everything was just a calculated endeavour. There was only one way to be sure, and that way lay through Harry Potter. Like it or not, it all came down to the boy.

Dumbledore let his gaze wander about the room he had lived in for more than fifty years as Headmaster of Hogwarts. The portraits of former Headmasters of Hogwarts slept placidly in their frames. History books and grimoires from all over sat on his shelves, dog-eared and carelessly catalogued. An ancient globe sat in the corner, marking all the nations existing in the world, as well as some that didn't. A tall, unoccupied perch stood by the window—Fawkes, his pet phoenix, was likely flying about the grounds for some exercise. The slant of the early morning light dappled the floor, and beyond the window he could hear the distant shouts of Quidditch players in practice. In a little while, the rest of the studentry would be assembling in their classrooms to begin another school year.

It was a wonderful school, and every year of his life here was a year well-spent. He had been happy to be around so many young people. Their very presence lent him energy, at times making him feel younger than his years. He did not wish for things to change now, to have the balance he'd worked so hard for shift once more.

But that is the child in me complaining, he thought with a rueful smile.

He had a duty to perform. He owed it to the children entrusted to his care. He owed it to the people who looked to him for security in these dark times. He owed it to those who had given their lives in the previous war to preserve this way of life. As he had told the members of the Order, we all have a role to fulfill, and no one suffers alone.

And Harry?

Dumbledore shook his head. Harry was a brave and strong boy, but he was still only a boy. It was hardly fair that he suffer any more than he already had.

He had been forced to carry a heavy burden since he was just a baby, having to live with cruel Muggles for his own protection after Voldemort murdered his parents. In the years that followed he had faced Voldemort three more times, and the last encounter was a very near thing, too near. On top of it all he had witnessed the death of Cedric Diggory. It had changed him. Perhaps forever.

It had been a year since Dumbledore last met with Harry. School had just begun, and one of the first things that Harry did was come talk to him. Dumbledore could still remember exactly what he said.

"_I've decided not to play for Gryffindor this year, sir."_

He remembered feeling regret the moment he heard those words, regret that he had not seen to Harry's peace of mind as well as he had to his security.

"…_I see."_

"_They already found a substitute Seeker from the Fourth years. Wallace, I think."_

"_Why, Harry?"_

_Harry did not answer. He seemed to have found something interesting to look at in his hands._

"_Does this have something to do with Cedric's death?"_

_After a time, Harry nodded._

"_I understand. I do not think it is a good idea, Harry, and I'm sure your friends have given you all the reasons why it isn't. Still, it is your decision, and I understand. I take it…your captain was less than pleased?"_

_Harry gave a small, bitter smile._

"_The Weasley twins weren't happy about it. They must've wanted to make waves this year as co-captains and I let them down. Professor McGonagall hasn't said a word to me since—I suppose that would be a good thing. Oliver would've taken it worse. I bet he'd have half of Gryffindor lynching me for abandoning them against the Slytherins. As for Ron…"_

Dumbledore's reverie was interrupted by the glow of a crystal ball on his desk. The light flared brightly for a moment to catch his attention, then faded to reveal the face of Minerva McGonagall. "Professor Dumbledore," she said, "Alastor Moody has arrived by Hogwarts Express and is here to see you."

Dumbledore leaned forward and said, "He's arrived too early, as usual. Very well, please show him to the Faculty Room. I will meet with him presently."

"Of course, Professor," responded McGonagall. When Dumbledore did not move away from the crystal, she said, "Is there…something else?"

Dumbledore said, "I would also appreciate it if you can ask Mr. Potter to come to my office as soon as possible."

"He is at the Great Hall right now, having breakfast with the rest of Gryffindor."

"Then I'm afraid we must interrupt him. Please apologize for me. This matter cannot wait."

With a courteous nod, McGonagall's face vanished from the surface of the crystal.

"So it must be," Dumbledore whispered. He stood up to pour himself some sweet wine, then stopped. _Later, after the meeting_. He sighed again, leaned back on his chair once more, and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a short knock on his door. "Come in, Harry," said Dumbledore.

The door opened, almost hesitantly, and the boy entered.

"Good morning, Headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled genially and motioned for him to sit down. "And good morning to you too. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Dumbledore studied him carefully as he made his way to the chair and sat down. They'd had little time to talk over the past year—he could count with one hand the number of times they greeted each other in passing. Physically, the boy had not changed much. Perhaps just a wee bit taller, but still that messy dark hair and lean frame. Perhaps the girls still sigh and giggle over him whenever he walked past. The difference lay in his eyes. In place of the spirited, often carefree look they had when he first came to Hogwarts, there was now a subtle guardedness. Harry gazed back at him with a little apprehension, and Dumbledore sighed inwardly. If there had been a way for him to give Harry a little more guidance, a little more sympathy, he would have done it. But some demons had to be faced alone. It was as true for Harry as it was for him.

Dumbledore reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a jar. "Would you care for some sweets? Perhaps some butterbeer…?"

"No, thank you, Professor. I'm rather full."

Dumbledore nodded. He opened the jar and retrieved a Chocolate Frog for himself.

"Tell me, Harry," he said. "How do you like your new teachers?"

"They're alright, sir."

"I understand that the Defense Against the Dark Arts class was popular last year. How goes it this year?"

Harry smiled a bit. "Professor Summershield's okay, though the lessons are a bit tame. Nobody else seems to think so, though. They're all rather attentive when she talks. At least the boys are."

"And what about your Potions Professor?"

At this, Harry seemed uncomfortable. "Sir…I don't mean to be rude, but do you think Professor Cowl will ever teach us an actual potion? All he ever talks about is how the potions are used. We never do anything hands-on."

The Headmaster merely smiled. "I'll look into that, Harry, but it seems you'll just have to be patient with Professor Cowl. He studied to be a historian, not a Potions Master. I'm afraid there's been a lack of them nowadays, and not anyone can be like Severus Snape."

"It seems so, sir."

Dumbledore nodded, then changed subjects. "Let me ask you something," he said, unwrapping the Chocolate Frog, "It's not my business, but do you think you'll be playing Quidditch this year?"

Harry was quiet for a minute, then just shrugged. "I'm not sure yet, sir. I still have to think about it."

"I see."

Dumbledore sat silently for another moment. Perhaps asking him was not a good idea, after all. The boy had enough problems. He needed time to get himself together. There were other plans, other ways.

But Harry was looking at him curiously now. "Professor Dumbledore, is that what you wanted to talk to me about? If I'm going to play Quidditch?"

Well, thought Dumbledore, should I lie to him, just say that I wanted to find out how he was, and send him back to breakfast? No, that was right out. He had never lied to Harry, and now was not a time to start.

So he said, "I called you here because I wanted to share something with you, something I've been considering all year now."

Harry nodded. "It's about Voldemort, isn't it?"

Dumbledore looked at him somberly. "Yes, I'm afraid it is." He stood up, retrieved his wand from his pocket, muttered a few words. The room crackled with power, as if a current of electricity had passed through the air. All the windows snapped shut. The lights in the room grew dim. Sounds from outside died away. Even the sunlight coming in from the slits of the window became weak and faded.

The Headmaster looked right at Harry. His thin frame radiated power, and his kindly gaze had turned sharp. "What I will tell you must not leave this room. People's lives are riding on the things we say and the decisions we make. For your sake and safety, you must not tell anyone what I am about to tell you now. Do you understand?"

Harry did not move, transfixed by his gaze. "Yes."

Dumbledore reached out his wand to him. "Lay your hand on this." Harry hesitated a moment before complying.

"Now promise."

"I promise to keep what you will tell me now a secret."

Dumbledore relaxed and the dweomer left him. He sat down. Harry looked visibly relieved.

"First I will tell you my plan," Dumbledore said, "then I will make a request of you. To this you will be free to say yes or no, given what you have heard. Alright?"

He looked into Harry's eyes and was surprised to see that the guarded look there had disappeared—instead their was only grim determination. I may have missed something on my assessment, thought the Headmaster. After all, he is a Gryffindor.

"Yes, Professor."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "Let us assess the situation."

"We know, firstly, that Voldemort is alive and hiding with his followers in a place somewhere in the south. Where exactly we are not certain, but we will be. Our concern now is this: there are signs he is consolidating power. Some of his old allies have disappeared from the public. Muggle news say that people have been disappearing as of late. Also, Hagrid tells me that the giants have been cool to our offers of friendship. I am certain, more than ever, that Voldemort is raising an army. When he is ready, and it will be soon, he will invade.

"To counter his plans, I have gathered together some people to help fight him."

"The Order of the Phoe—" Harry stopped, realizing what he had just done.

Dumbledore smiled. "It's alright, Harry. As I have said before, in Hogwarts, secrets are hard to keep. Still, we shall keep this discussion to ourselves, right?"

Harry nodded, and the Headmaster continued, "As you know, the Ministry is reluctant to help. We must help ourselves. Thus, the Order. Our members are able-bodied and strong, if a little short on numbers for what Voldemort has in mind. Still, should there be war the damage to both sides would be most grievous, and the conflict would spread beyond the wizarding world. The outcome will be bleak, whether we win or lose. So it is with most wars. Do you understand, Harry?"

"Yes, I see your point, sir."

"Would you agree, then, that it is in our best interest to keep the conflict as short as possible?"

"I agree. But how can that be done?"

Dumbledore's eyes turned sad. Now came the hard part. "I hate to bring back bad memories, Harry, but as I said before, all we speak of here is important. Tell me, do you remember what happened at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament? Do you remember when you told me that the Dark Lord had risen?"

If Harry felt anything—grief, anger, fear—it did not show on his face. "Yes, Professor," was all he said.

"Do you remember the spell Pettigrew cast to create Voldemort's body?"

Harry flinched at remembered pain. "Yes."

Dumbledore's brows furrowed. "The Dark Arts give many rewards to its followers, Harry. They can even give life, after a fashion. But the ways of Darkness are steeped in suffering and death. There is always a dreadful price."

Harry looked down at this forearm, as if he could still see the scar through the sleeves of his robes. "He took my blood."

"Yes," said Dumbledore as he leaned back on his chair, "and in so doing he now shares the protection bestowed upon you when you were just a baby. He has made sure that he will not be beaten the same way again."

Harry raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore's. "Is it true then, Professor? Is it true what he said, that he can't die?"

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. "I can't think of a way to kill him, if that's what you're asking," he said.

Harry slumped back on his chair. "Then there is no way to defeat him. Voldemort would just keep coming back, wouldn't he?"

"There is a way, Harry. One way." Dumbledore took his wand once more and traced patterns in the air. The space before Harry shimmered and he found himself staring at the largest, most delicately cut jewel he had ever seen. Even the wan sunlight sparkled on its blood-red surface. Every facet perfectly reflected Harry's awed expression.

Dumbledore leaned with his elbows on the desk. "Let me tell you a story."

Though he did not need to, Harry leaned closer as well. Dumbledore spent a moment gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice had grown soft and aged, his eyes looking at somewhere far away.

"Many centuries ago," he said, "before the Four had even dreamed of founding Hogwarts and the Celts still roamed this land, there lived a great witch named Dahlia. Her knowledge of magic was both wide and deep, but so was her thirst for power. Thus she was corrupted, and walked the way of Nightgaunt, Halvan and Grindelwald into the Dark Arts. She held council with vampires and other fell beings, and disappeared from the people's sight. When she returned, she had become something else completely. She became known as The Cimmerian Sorceress. Her power was staggering, incomparable. Many challenged her and died horribly, for like Voldemort, she too had conquered death. Within a year it seemed the entire land would fall into her grasp.

"But there was one who rose to challenge her and succeeded. This man was her own kin, her cousin Volarius. Volarius was wise and gifted with farsight. Since he could not hope to kill Dahlia, he decided he had to imprison her. After much research, he discovered how to do it.

"From meteorite ore he crafted a gemstone. He charmed it with sap from a Sylvan tree to make it unbreakable. He crafted its facets with fire, and polished its surface with ice. When he had finished, the gem was a pale, clear crystal, the size of a human heart.

"But he needed other things to complete his Crystal Cage. To control it, he had to infuse it with something that belonged to him. And to capture the Cimmerian Sorceress, he also had to infuse it with something that belonged to her. But though he schemed and plotted, he could not hope to get near enough to steal something from Dahlia. So he used the next best thing, the one thing that he and Dahlia shared—his own blood.

"He cut his wrist and fused his blood with the Crystal, turning it into a crimson gem. Then he confronted Dahlia and the two fought a terrible battle at Stonehenge. When he used the Crystal, it pulsed with power and drew Dahlia into itself. The Cimmerian Sorceress was no more, trapped forever in Volarius's cage."

Dumbledore paused for a moment. Harry, who had been hanging on to his every word, asked, "Then what happened, Professor?"

"Well," the Headmaster went on, "the people then did not know how Volarius defeated Dahlia, only that the Cimmerian Sorceress was gone and that there was peace in the land. Volarius could have been king, but instead he retired to a quiet life. He took his Crystal Cage and kept it in his secret vault. There was no danger of Dahlia escaping from it, but he kept it safe nonetheless till the day he died. Then his family took over its guardianship. From then on, the Crystal was passed on from generation to generation, but its secret was known only to a precious few.

"Volarius was a good man but he was not naïve. He was aware that other wizards, even those of his kin, lusted for power, and evil deeds could be done should the Crystal fall into the wrong hands. So when he created it, he altered the Imprisonment Charm such that the Crystal's magic would work only under two conditions. First, the Crystal could only work in the hands of someone from his bloodline. And the second…" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at Harry. "The second is that it would only work against someone from his bloodline."

Harry blinked at this, puzzled. Dumbledore went on.

"After many years, the story of Dahlia and the Crystal's secret were lost to memory, existing only in the dustiest of history books. The Crystal was passed on as a family heirloom, considered as nothing more than a pretty trinket. Last we know, it had been turned over to one of the last surviving branches of Volarius's family…the Evans."

Harry's eyes widened in shock. "You mean…_my mother's family?_"

"Precisely, Harry. I am sure neither Lily Evans nor her family knew of the Crystal's properties, being mostly non-magical folk. What I am sure of is that it had been kept by your grandmother as her personal treasure—she refused to sell it off even when the Evans faced hard times. From the research we have done, we believe that she had been buried with it."

Harry sat quietly, thinking things over. He looked up after a time and said, "Professor, you're saying that we can use this crystal as a weapon…"

The Headmaster nodded.

"You're saying…I'm to use it…against Voldemort."

Dumbledore did not respond. He merely looked at Harry.

"But it won't work on him! Volarius's conditions—"

He stopped, eye widening in comprehension.

"The spell! The spell Pettigrew cast to create Voldemort's body! He took bone, flesh...and my blood!"

"Yes," said the Headmaster. "Blood contains life force, the very essence of a person. That is why it carries Protective Charms so well. When Voldemort crafted his body, he infused himself with your own wards. A master stroke, indeed." He smoothed his beard. "But even a master stroke can have a blind-side."

They sat silently for a while. Dumbledore could see that that same guarded look was coming over Harry's eyes as the boy gazed deeply into the illusionary Crystal. He had no idea what it could mean, but he should say what he had to say.

"Now I will make my request of you, Harry," he said. "I ask you to go on a journey to obtain the Crystal Cage from your mother's hometown. It will respond only to you, Harry. There is no one else for this task. When you have found a way to master it, I will ask you to face Voldemort once more…"

He stopped and watched Harry's expression. Still nothing. He went on, "You have been through much these past years, too much for anyone of your age to bear…therefore, I do not order you to do this. I can only ask—"

"Yes."

Dumbledore stopped, looked long and hard at Harry. The boy did not seem the least bit afraid. "Harry, this journey is no simple adventure. You will be in danger. The agents of Voldemort are everywhere. And there may be unforseen circumstances…"

Harry drew in a deep breath. "Professor, you have a plan to keep me safe on this journey, right?"

"Yes, I do."

Harry nodded. "I trust you, sir. I'm going."

Dumbledore heaved a long sigh. _So it must be._

Harry's eyes maintained his resolve, but he also looked a little pale.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"I could really use some butterbeer now."

Dumbledore smiled kindly and said, "You can have whatever you like, but I have something better if you don't mind. Do you drink wine?"

Harry fidgeted, "Um, not as a habit, sir. Mr. Weasely once poured me some elderflower wine back at the Burrow. It was okay, I suppose."

The Headmaster waved his wand to dispel the illusion, then Summoned a bottle of wine and two goblets to the table. "Have some with me then. This one's white plum. I rather like the taste, reminds me of springtime."

He poured wine into the glasses, and they drank a toast. Harry sipped lightly from the wine at first, nodded in approval, and drank more.

"Professor?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"Will the trip be a long one?"

The old man paused. "Travelling there and back is easy. My agent has scouted the area and installed a Portkey beforehand, since you can't Apparate and the Ministry is not going to let us go there by Floo. The search for the Crystal will take a long while. Two weeks will be the limit for you. If you cannot locate the Crystal before then, you must return."

"Oh."

"I'm afraid I can't send any of your friends with you either. And communication with Hogwarts will be put to a minimum, all for security reasons…so if you change your mind…"

Harry looked somewhat miffed. "I won't. I already said I'm going." He looked at Dumbledore and said, "Sir? What did you think I was going to say?"

Dumbledore gave a small shrug. "I was afraid you'd say yes."

"It's a good plan, sir. You were right when you said we had to win this war with as little as conflict as possible. If we can get to Voldemort first, then the fight's over. We must find the Crystal Cage. Or at least try."

"He will be after you too, Harry."

"I know sir, but…" he paused, and Dumbledore saw resolve surface sharply on his face.

"I can't run from this. I don't want to keep my head down here while everyone else faces the danger. Why should I be any different? We all have responsibilities."

Dumbledore's smile was small and sad. "Don't you think you've put yourself under too much of it?"

Harry looked at him evenly, then said, "I've thought of that before. But then I remembered what you said last year, to everyone in the Great Hall. Before the summer began."

"Which was…?"

Harry's grip tightened around the goblet in his pale hand. "'Remember Cedric,'" he said, "'if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember Cedric.'" He finished the rest of his wine and said, "How do we begin, sir?"

It took another half-hour of explanations before the final details of the plan were laid out. While Dumbledore paced around his desk, carefully explaining, Harry's eyes continued to widen in amazement. After the old man finished, Harry just sat still.

"Are you alright, lad?"

"…Yes sir. It's just that…I had no idea we'd have to take such measures…"

"I understand your concern. But you must remember that Voldemort's spies are everywhere. Nowhere is completely safe. Not even here."

Harry nodded numbly.

Dumbledore continued, "But if you are uncomfortable with the arrangements, then…"

"No Professor. I'm fine. I'll still go through with this."

"So, will you ask your friends for me?"

"Yes sir."

"Very well. Well and good." He gave Harry a small pat on the shoulder. As he gazed at the boy, he felt hope soar in his heart, the same hope he felt when he had founded the Order. Yes, this plan could work. Harry would find the Crystal—wasn't that what he did best, finding things? Yes, he would claim it, master it, and bring down the Dark Lord before he could inflict any horrors upon the world. And he, Dumbledore, would make sure Harry would live to do it.

The plan could work. They would MAKE it work. All of them.

"I will see you tomorrow evening then, Harry," he said, eyes twinkling. "And hopefully, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger as well."

Another goblet of wine, another round of well-wishing, and Harry left the Headmaster's office.

He stepped onto the staircase and allowed it to carry him back to the entrance. The gargoyle at the door sniffed the air once as he approached, and made way for him to pass. Out the door he went, into the halls of Hogwarts once more.

Harry walked slowly, staying close to the wall. His eyes traced the hanging tapestries, but saw nothing. He idly brushed against the silk curtains, but his fingers were too numb to feel them. He came up to a suit of armor and examined it as if he had never seen it there before. Filch could probably come along and accuse him of leaving fingerprints on the flawless steel, but he wouldn't have care at all. Finally, he sank into a nearby chair and clasped his hands.

_What did I just say yes to?_

He couldn't imagine what the journey would be like, only that it would mean leaving the place he called home for two weeks or more. He had also said no to a great many things. No to the first two weeks of his Sixth year. No to wonderful, sumptious meals in the Great Hall. No to the comforts of a cheery Common Room, playing chess by the fire. No to the luxury of a soft four-poster bed. Perhaps even no to Quidditch, for a second year in a row. If they found out, Fred and George would murder him. Ron would be the accessory.

He would be saying no to Ron and Hermione. He had to tell his two best friends that he was going away. He had to tell them they couldn't go with him, not this time. And he couln't tell them _why_.

It's too late, he thought. I've already decided.

_But what about her, Harry? Are you going to tell her?_

For one awful moment, Harry felt his resolve weaken. Two weeks on a dangerous journey, two weeks away from her. What if he never saw her again? Would she know? Would she even care? He leaned forward, touching his forehead to his clasped hands, wondering if he should talk to her again after so long, and if he even had the courage to try.

Eventually, he calmed himself and stood up. He didn't have to make that decision right now. That, at least, was a consolation. For now there was Ron and Hermione.

Harry drew in a deep breath to clear his mind, then walked resolutely towards Gryffindor Tower.


	2. Chapter 2

Alastor Moody waited an hour before deciding that, if he was to going do anymore of this, it might as well be on his feet.

Planting both gnarled hands onto the armrests, he pushed himself out his cushy chair and made for the door. The antechamber McGonagall led him into was a comfortable enough place to rest, but to Moody a period of inactivity was more tiring than work. His feet itched to explore. His eyes sought to examine every nook and cranny of the building for any sign of the enemy. In other words, he thought as he flung open the door, I need to do my job.

Students passing by leaped away from him as he entered the hall. He looked about at their shocked faces. "Don't worry," he said, "you haven't met _me_ before." He hobbled away, his peg-leg trailing staccato clunks on the stone floor.

Moody spent the next hour briskly patrolling the halls, his magical eye taking everything in. He treasured this tool, the eye. To his sight, the thickest walls seemed like fine spring mist, and even the invisible merely looked dim. He peered into classrooms and offices, desks and bags. Magical items glowed slightly, and hidden doors stood out from the walls.

When someone got too close, he even looked through their clothing for hidden weapons. Not that he took pleasure from the practice; one just cannot be too sure. Once, back in the spring of '76, he was attacked by a little girl put under the Imperius curse. He sometimes remembered her and her subsequent rescue on cold days, when the scar from her switchblade would pain him. That gave him his most valuable lesson—anyone could be one of _them_.

He paused to examine yet another secret door behind a painting. Noting the cobwebs and dust on the other side, he decided that no one had used it for some time. He stored an image of the door in his eye for future reference, then gazed at the painting itself. It was a landscape of a tranquil forest, complete with moving animals. Moss and fir lay scattered in the duff, and the deep shadows of leaves mottled the clear little brook that flowed down the middle of the painting.

As he watched a doe stop to drink, he reflected that there used to be at time when his life was not so harried. Why, just two years ago he had been living the quiet life of a retiree, off in the countryside. The Ministry had decided that, in peacetime, he deserved something after all his trouble. He had been given a pension and a quiet little shack in an undisclosed place near the woods, where it smelled of summer all year long.

He turned away from the painting and trudged on. He could no longer recall that smell, and he would not be back there to relish it again. Two years ago, he had been kidnapped from his house and put into a dreamless sleep in his own strong box, while a Death Eater impersonated him using Polyjuice Potion. His wooden leg had been taken from him, and so had his eye. Moody gritted his teeth at the memory. It had been a near-disaster for Harry Potter, and would have been an ignoble end for the most capable, most _feared _Auror in all of Britain.

And now? Except for Dumbledore, everyone thought of Moody in the past tense. Even in the Order, he was relegated to mundane tasks. They were not unkind, but they had their kid-gloves snugly on.

All because he got a little careless. All because he enjoyed the peace a little too much.

_Whatever happened your Constant Vigilance, eh, 'Mad-eye'?_ said a mocking voice inside him. _Gotten old, haven't you? Well, now you can practice your Constant Vigilance all you like, playing watchdog at Headquarters._

Now Voldemort had returned. Moody knew he was never going to go back to retirement.

Not that he'd want to, actually.

His face twisted into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. A girl passing by saw him and instantly shrank against the wall, spilling the books in her arms. As he stalked past her, he wondered for the thousandth time if they did that because he looked fearsome, or because they still thought he was a Death Eater in disguise. _What does it matter as long as they're watching out for themselves?_ the voice started up again. _Constant vigilance, eh Moody? Are those the watchwords of the day?_

He was jolted out of his brooding by the patter of running feet behind him. He went for his wand and spun about with a cry, jabbing it at a breathless boy who had just run up to him. The boy stopped in his tracks and threw both hands over his head. "Don't zap me! I'm unarmed!" he cried.

After checking him over, Moody snarled and put away his wand. "Don't go running up behind me like that! I could've turned you into a newt, by Merlin!"

The boy gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Wow, really? McGonagall never taught us that in Transfiguration. That would be something to see! How's it done?"

Moody stared at him for a minute. "What's your name, boy?"

"Er, Creevy, sir. Dennis Creevy."

"Gryffindor?"

"Yes! How'd you know?"

Moody pocketed his wand. "Lucky guess. In any case, I'd rather not turn you into a newt, Mr. Creevy, seeing you've the brains of one already. Put your hands down and say what you have to say!"

"Oh. Right." He dropped his hands and said, "Um, Professor McGonagall asked me to find you. She wanted me to tell you the Headmaster will see you now."

Ah, thought Moody, straightening. Dumbledore. Now he would know what all this is about. "Very well," he said, and started to walk away.

The boy scuttled after him. "Er, not that way sir."

Moody whirled about, slapping the boy with his heavy cloak. "What are you talking about? His office is this way, is it not?"

"He's not in his office, sir. He's waiting for you in the garden near the Whomping Willow. This way." He pointed and started walking.

Moody wondered at what Dumbledore might be thinking. The garden? Out in the open?

The boy stopped and turned around. "Coming, sir?"

"Yes, yes," said Moody. As he picked up after Dennis, he muttered, "What in the world is he doing in the garden?"

Overhearing him, Dennis said, "Feeding the fishes, sir."

The late morning sun flashed on the Headmaster's milky-white hair as he stood quietly by the pond. Moody could easily see him from the glass double doors leading into the garden. Dumbledore casually tossed fishfood from a bowl in his hands. To his left, near the hedges, was a table bearing a tea set and a plate piled up with biscuits. Moody gritted his teeth as he opened the doors and shambled towards Dumbledore. He had come all the way out here to discuss tactics, not make social calls!

Dumbledore turned at Moody's approach. He greeted him with a warm smile and extended his hand. "Alastor, old friend! It's been a while."

Moody shook hands quickly. "Greetings, Professor. I see you are well. I have news."

"So it seems," replied Dumbledore. He gestured to the table. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Moody reached into the one of the deep pockets of his coat and retrieved a roll of parchment. "Here is the summary report from the Front. Also, my report on the Ministry's activities."

To his chagrin, Dumbledore accepted the parchment and slipped it in his pocket without so much as a glance. "Thank you, Alastor. I will take a look at this. Now, would you care for some refreshments?"

"I'm afraid I can't stay long. I have a lot of work these days in the Order, what with all that's going on."

"Surely you can spare a moment. You've come a long way, and I have made you wait. Let me make it up to you first. Perhaps, a batch of freshly baked rum biscuits will be an adequate apology."

"There's no need to apologize. I've kept busy, anyhow," growled Moody. Then he paused, his magical eye swivelling to the table. "Rum biscuits, eh?"

Dumbledore smiled encouragingly. "Poppy's best, you know. I asked her to make us a batch early this morning."

"Well," said Moody, "I believe I can spare some time." He allowed Dumbledore to steer him to a chair.

"Now then," said Dumbledore as he put down the bowl and sat across from Moody, "I was just going through my things this morning when . . . what do I find at the bottom of my drawer?" He pulled out a small red box from his pocket. Moody saw it glow blue, and instantly recognized it.

Ah, he thought. So this WAS going to be a secret meeting.

He satisfied himself with a biscuit as Dumbledore tapped the playing cards out of the box. "I thought I had lost my favorite Tokah deck, but there it was! Quite a pleasant surprise. How about a few rounds of Choose-and-Pass, Alastor?"

Moody smiled thinly. "I believe I still remember the rules." He helped himself to another biscuit as Dumbledore shuffled the deck and dealt him a hand.

They said nothing as they raised their cards and examined them thoroughly. A few seconds later, Dumbledore began the game by laying a card face-down onto the table. "A fine morning we're having. Lovely weather this week, isn't it?"

"Quite," Moody grunted. He picked up the card and put it in his hand. There were tiny words inscribed there.

_-I hope you don't mind the arrangements I made for our meeting. I know it is a bit too informal for your taste.-_

After he had read them, the words faded from view. Moody formed a reply in his head and concentrated on one of his own cards. His thoughts were imprinted onto the face.

_-I don't mind, but wouldn't your office be more secure? The garden is far too open.-_

He put the card down onto the table. Dumbledore leisurely picked it up, chose one of his own, and passed it. They kept at this while faking small-talk.

_-I have a number of reasons. I wanted us to look as nonchalant as possible. You finished what you came to do. Now we're just two foolish old men wasting time, playing games. You see, I believe there's a spy in Hogwarts.-_

Moody's thin smile returned, this time with a predatory glint to it_. -Any idea who it is?-_

_-Unfortunately, no.-_

_-Give me a week and it will be taken care of.-_

Dumbledore was quick to reply. -_I thank you, Alastor, but that's not part of my plan. For now, let us leave the spy alone. Perhaps there will be some use for it later. I have a different task in mind for you.-_

Moody scratched his chin as he replied. -_Let's hear it then.-_

_-Remember your tenure as a bodyguard for former Minister Woodworth?-_

_-I do. No less than 23 attempts on his life in the 1960s. Couldn't take a walk down the street without a bloody army guarding his backside. I still have the burn marks when I took a shot for him in the Diagon incident. Those were the days. Well, you have someone in mind now?-_

_-First, please tell me if someone's watching us.-_

Moody reached into another coat pocket and fished out what looked like a pocket watch. He laid on the table and opened it. Instead of a clock's face, inside was round mirror. It was a piece of his Foe-Glass, a device he used to spot nearby enemies. Right now, there was nothing on the glass but a grey haze. Satisfied, Moody put down another card.

_-Go ahead.-_

Dumbledore nodded and passed his own card.

_-Harry Potter.-_

Moody raised one scraggy eyebrow. -_Interesting.-_

_-He's going on a journey, Alastor. He's going to look for something vital to us. I cannot tell you the specifics yet, only that he needs to be protected. So, I was hoping you're not as busy with the Order as you say…-_

Moody snorted. He slapped his next card onto the table.

_-Those snot-nosed brats might as well keep me tethered at the door! Wet behind the bloody ears, the whole lot of them! But what do they make me do all day? Stand guard like a common watch dog! I should be out there in the Front, hunting down Death Eaters like the bloodhound I was made to be.-_

I spent all the good years of my life that way, he added in his thoughts. Why not the last ones?

Dumbledore stroked his beard, then gently lay a card down. -_I understand how you feel, my friend. Perhaps you will be more in your element with this task. If you accept it, of course.-_

_-I'll do it if it gets me out of Headquarters. How long a journey are we looking at?-_

_-A maximum of two weeks. You are scheduled to leave six days from now, next Wednesday. Also, to prevent any run-ins with the Ministry, you'll have to travel by PortKey.-_

_-Dangerous?-_

_-I have other security measures for Harry that will ensure utmost secrecy. I will show these to you later, but this mission may still to be considerably life-threatening.-_

_-Excellent. I'll need a team of four, preferrably from the Aurors on our side.-_

Moody could tell by the way Dumbledore set his mouth that not only was he going to be turned down, what he was going to be told may well be unpleasant.

_-I'm afraid five bodyguards will catch too much attention. I don't want the Death Eaters getting the slightest idea on what we're up to. As such, two bodyguards would be ideal.-_

_-So, you already have someone in mind?-_

_-I do. I was hoping you could work with young Daniel once more.-_

_Moody coughed and spat into the cup he had been sipping from. He fixed both eyes upon the Headmaster._

_-You absolutely cannot mean what you just said!-_

There was a hint of humor on the Headmaster's face as he replied, -_I always mean what I say, Alastor.-_

Moody fought to keep his face straight. -_But . . . Daniel? Why him?-_

_-I have my reasons. Chief of these is that he is unobtrusive.-_

Moody snorted. _-'The Caracal'? Unobtrusive?-_

_-I mean he won't catch Voldemort's attention,-_ Dumbledore clarified. _-You must agree that everyone in both the Ministry and the Order is a marked man. If a number of us go missing for some time, people will start asking questions. And what if the wrong people start asking the right questions? We both know that Voldemort keeps his ear to the ground. This makes someone like Daniel ideal. Voldemort won't anticipate him.-_

_-That sounds well and good, but let's not forget that boy's temperament! He's a cudgel, not a blade! You might as well have asked your Whomping Willow to knit you a sweater!-_

Dumbledore took a sip from his cup before forming a reply. -_From what I have seen of his performance in the past, Daniel has handled himself quite capably. I see no danger in putting my trust in him. Besides which, you will be there to guide him, just as you were there last time.-_

_-Of course I was there last time! Why do you think I retired afterwards?-_

_-Come, come, Alastor. I assure you that you both worked very well together. Didn't you once say that a team draws strength from variety? And you must admit, Daniel's skills are quite useful. He could have worked for the Order, even the Ministry somehow, if he so wanted.-_

Moody's face turned blank. He lowered his hand after he passed another card.

_-The boy distrusts Aurors. He hates anything connected to the Ministry. He won't have anything to do with Hogwarts. You were lucky to get him the first time. What makes you think you can do it again?-_

Dumbledore traced the outline of his chin with a finger. _-I'll have to talk to him later. I am confident he will agree. If he balks, I can think of a few things I can offer him.-_

_-You're really going through with this, aren't you.-_

Dumbledore looked at him soberly. _-Only if you are.-_

Neither of them moved for a few moments. Then Moody swiftly put a card down.

_-Wait.-_

Dumbledore wrote back, _-How long before you can come to a decision?-_

_-I don't mean it like that. I see something on my Foe-Glass.-_

Moody relaxed his shoulders and lifted the cards to his face, but kept his magical eye trained at the hazy figure that had surfaced on his device. Across from him, Dumbledore scratched his head and pretended to be stumped for his next move.

The figure in the Foe-glass seemed like part of the grey mist, only darker and vaguely man-shaped. Moody pretended to yawn but kept staring at it, daring it to approach. It came to the brink of being discernable, but faded away as suddenly as it had come.

A card slid towards Moody.

_-Well?-_

Moody's eye swiveled towards Dumbledore. _-Your pests here are slippery. Took off before I could get a good look. Good intuition on that one.-_

_-I suppose we'll just have to be on our guard. In any case, the spy won't learn anything I won't want Voldemort to learn.-_

_-Playing it close, I see. Just like in the old days.-_

_-Yes, those were the days.-_

They both sipped their tea in silence. It was several long minutes before Moody passed another card. _-You really believe we can pull this whole thing off?-_

Dumbledore merely smiled. _-You two have my utmost faith.-_

_-…I'm undecided.-_

_-I wonder about that. I thought you wanted to be a bloodhound.-_

_-You're a sneaky git. I swear I'll never play cards with you again!-_

Dumbledore chuckled. _-We have a deal then. You will be well rewarded, Alastor. And Daniel too.-_

Moody returned a weary sigh. _-I don't believe I'm actually going through with this.-_

"I just don't believe it!" cried Ron. Harry heaved a weary sigh. As he had thought, this was going to be nowhere near easy.

As per Dumbledore's instructions, he had brought both Ron and Hermione to the Headmaster's office to explain to them what he had to do. Both his best friends were more than surprised when they saw Harry had been given access to Dumbledore's quarters, or that he knew how to operate its Security charms. They were apprehensive as well. It could only mean something big was going on.

At the moment, the Headmaster was not around, having opted to give Harry some privacy for this task. He had his friends sit on the comfortable chairs in front of the oak desk, sat down on another chair—and proceeded to tell them he was going away.

Neither one had taken the news well.

"I can't believe you've just agreed to leave for two weeks!" Ron said. "Two weeks away from Hogwarts! Two weeks away from…from everything! And you're not even going to tell us _why_?"

Across him, Hermione sat staring at Harry, a frown tugging at her brows. No, she didn't like this any more than Ron did, but Harry had to explain to them that this had to be done. Hopefully without a prolonged argument.

"Ron," said Harry, "Dumbledore has some very good reasons why he wants it this way. This entire mission must be kept secret. I'd like to tell you where I'm going and why, but I can't."

"And why not? It's not like I can't keep secrets!"

"I already told you. There are security reasons…"

"Security never stopped you before, Harry. Or don't you remember the Philosopher's Stone? How about flying a Ford Anglia? And taking stuff from Snape's quarters? For God's sakes Harry, we all know who your godfather is! How can you say we can't keep secrets?"

"I'm not saying that! It's just that things are different this time!"

"In what way? I don't see how you can leave us out of this. I don't even understand why you agreed to do something like this without talking to us about it first!"

Harry felt an irrational stab of guilt even as he retorted, "Because it's supposed to be a secret! Of course I can't talk to you about it first!"

"I already know that! I'm saying that it never stopped you before!"

"It would be too dangerous for either of you to know!"

Ron threw up his hands. "What, you don't trust us? Is that it?"

Harry felt all too grateful when Hermione reached out for Ron's arm. "Calm down, will you? Just calm down. We're going around in circles. And you know that's not what Harry meant." Ron looked at her, and fell quiet for the moment.

"Harry," Hermione said, "does it have really have to be you? Surely Dumbledore can send someone else to do whatever is necessary…?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not this time. Sorry, Hermione."

"But what could be so important that …" She stopped when Harry shook his head. He would tell her nothing further.

Ron spoke up. "Fine. Don't tell us why you have to go. Don't even say where. I won't ask any questions. But we're coming with you."

Harry's mouth fell open. "Ron—No!"

"What do you mean, no? Why not? Too dangerous, is it?"

"Of course it's dangerous, but that's not—"

"You're expecting us to sit on our bums here and do nothing while You-Know-Who hunts you down out there? Forget it! We're going!"

"Will you stop and listen for a minute! In the first place, it isn't safe for us to go together! Everyone knows who we are and they're bound to notice if we've left Hogwarts. When Voldemort finds out about it we're finished, and so is the mission."

Ron seemed so worked up he didn't even flinch at the Dark Lord's name. He put his fists on top of his knees and tried to control himself. "So you're going out there by yourself?"

"I'm not going alone," replied Harry. "Dumbledore said I'll have two bodyguards."

Hermione spoke up. "Who? Sirius? Remus?"

"Maybe. He hasn't told me yet," Harry said. He hoped it would be them.

"It's gotta be Sirius and Remus. I'm sure then they'll let us come," said Ron hastily. "Besides, it'll be safer if you have more people around you."

Harry clenched his teeth. Now was not the time for Ron to actually be logical. "It won't work that way. I already told you—!"

"You've told me nothing since the minute you dragged us up here! You won't say where you're going or why! I don't know why you feel you can't tell us why you're risking your life again—"

"I can't tell you because I _can't_."

"You mean you _won't._"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ron stared stonily at him. "It means exactly what it means."

The two said nothing. Harry grappled for a retort, but Hermione cut in before he could do any damage. "Harry, maybe it'll be easier if you tell us what Dumbledore had in mind when he said we could help."

Harry turned away from Ron. "Yeah, fine," he muttered. He ran his hand through his hair, as if to clear his thoughts.

"Dumbledore has all sorts of precautions to make sure the whole thing's a secret. In fact, he wants to make sure no one knows I've left."

Ron snorted. "Just how're the two of you going to manage that?"

Harry drew in a breath before answering. "He's going to build a homunculus."

Hermione gasped, eyes widening. "Harry! Is he really…?"

Ron turned to her, "What's he talking about?"

"I read about those things in _Amulets, Artifacts and other Arcana,_" Hermione said. "A homunculus is an artificial human brought to life by magic! It's a lot like a golem, only it looks exactly like a human being. It will be able to talk, think and act independently from its creators just like any ordinary person."

Ron frowned and scratched an eyebrow. "You mean it's alive?"

"It isn't really alive. It's just pretending to be." She turned to Harry. "You're saying that Dumbledore's going to make a homunculus that looks just like you?"

"Yes. Dumbledore says there's a way to make it behave like me. It will be my decoy. If everything works out, no one will ever suspect that I've ever left." He paused, relishing the brilliance of Dumbledore's plan. "Not even Voldemort."

Hermione's brows furrowed once more. "But won't Dumbledore get into trouble if the Ministry finds out? The homunculus will be an unlicensed magical construct…"

"That's why we're going to keep the whole thing to ourselves. Aside from Dumbledore, only me, you and my bodyguards will know."

Ron gazed at him suspiciously. It seemed he had an idea of what was up ahead. "And what are _we_ supposed to do with this look-alike of yours, Harry?"

Harry returned his gaze stoically. "I don't know yet. Dumbledore will explain later on. I just need your pledge that you'll help later."

"Not again!" Ron bolted out of his seat. "I can see where this is going! You're asking me to live with this..._thing_ that looks likes you and talks like you, but isn't even alive? You're asking me to pretend he's you? Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I'll be out of my mind if I don't go through with this!" Harry shouted, rising out of his seat. "I have one chance, one chance to bring Voldemort down! You think I'd waste it? You think I'd jeopardize it? I don't care if it means leaving Hogwarts for two weeks or two years. I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care even if I have to do it alone. I'm taking this chance. And you can either help me or get out of my way!"

Silence fell in the darkened room, but Harry could hear only his own heavy breathing. He turned away from Ron's hardened expression and walked to the side of Dumbledore's desk.

"I've tried to explain it to you," he said. "This is how it's going to be: tomorrow evening, Professor Dumbledore is going to have another meeting here. I'm going, and I'm asking you both to come too. You have to decide if you're going to help out or not. The new password will be 'Fiddlesticks.' If you're here by seven o'clock, then you're helping us. If you're not, then you're not."

Ron had not taken his eyes away from him for one moment.

"You think I'm just going to go along with whatever you say, don't you."

Before Harry could reply, Ron turned and stalked towards the door. He slammed it shut behind him as he left.

With a sigh, Harry turned off the Security charms and leaned against the desk. He looked at Hermione, who had been watching him intently.

"So, Prefect Granger, are you going to start taking points off because I've been keeping secrets from you?"

She shook her head. "I understand where you're coming from, Harry."

He watched her for a moment, then remarked, "It's kind of funny."

"What is?"

"You hardly tried to stop us from arguing. That isn't like you. You always used to get between us one way or another. Like stamp your feet, or shout, or smack Ron on the head."

She just shrugged and smiled a little. "Sometimes you have to just let people get things off their chest. Ron has wanted to let you know some things for a while now. He just didn't know how to say it."

Harry wondered what she meant. He tried to review some of Ron's words, but was too angry to think straight at the moment. There would be time to sift through them later.

He said, "Hey, don't you think he over-reacted over my leaving for just a couple of weeks?"

"Don't trivialize it, Harry," she said. "In case you've forgotten, we've known each other for six years. That's six years worth of studying together, having meals together, going on trips, getting in trouble. We've shared life and sometimes we've very nearly shared death. And now you're going off alone."

"I won't be alone, Hermione. Dumbledore said…"

"I know what Dumbledore said. What I meant was, whenever something difficult came along, it's always been the three of us. Since first year, it was always us _together_. "

She watched her hands for a minute, trying to find the words. "I was thinking, since the day Ron and I…got together, you've been mostly by yourself. I don't think that was fair to you. We sort of left you alone …"

"Hermione, don't. We all waited ages for you guys to come clean, and—"

She waved him off. "I know…but it didn't help the fact that you were becoming more distant, Harry. I saw it happening. You'd sometimes get quiet and brooding, and then you'd go off alone. I guess you thought you could hide it, but we knew you too well. We worried about you, but it was difficult to reach you. It only got worse when you had nightmares. But you wouldn't talk. Well, it was partly our fault. We should've kept trying.

"Harry, I know you're doing this because Dumbledore asked you to and it has to be just you. But you know what? Before today, I've never seen you keep something so secret from either Ron or me. I've never seen you fight so hard to keep the both of us out. I think Ron sees this too, that's why he got so mad. That's why he said those things. It's like you WANT to do this alone, Harry. You want to do this alone and that scares me, it really does. So I want to know _why_." She gazed at him beseechingly.

Harry dropped his eyes to the floor. The guilt came again, stronger this time. He fought it down and said, "…I just don't want either of you to get hurt. That's all." But the words felt too heavy, the way they felt whenever he lied.

Hermione stared at him for a while, then said, "What about Ginny?"

Harry stiffened slightly. When he looked up, his face was blank. "What about Ginny?"

"Won't you tell her what you've told us? And that you're going away?"

The question hung in the air. Part of Harry resented her for reminding him—he had already succeeded in pushing the question away into some dark corner of his mind, as if it would somehow answer itself. It hadn't. Now _he_ was the one cornered. And he had no words.

Finally, he replied, "I don't think I should. It's not part of the plan."

She returned his even gaze, disappointment in her eyes. "No, of course it's not. It's not in YOUR plan." She sighed in a way that said, 'at least consider it.' "I'll see if I can turn Ron around. I can't promise you anything about him, but I'll be here tomorrow night." She turned and left the room.

Harry stayed there at the table for a long minute, not thinking, not seeing. Then he slowly made his way to the chair beside him. He pulled of his glasses and sank into the seat, head lolling back, arms on the rests, eyes falling shut.

He waited for an answer.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thursday evening._

She walked amidst a cluster of other girls, but he easily found her by the sound of her laughter and that telltale bright red hair. Harry stood in the corner of the antechamber, watching as Ginny Weasley made her way to the Great Hall.

It was dinnertime, but he did not feel like eating. His feet took him here out of force of habit. He had just spent hours of his free time walking aimlessly through the halls. He was sure had been buried in thought, but for the life of him he could not remember what those thoughts were. And like yesterday, nothing he had seen or heard around him seemed completely real. He might as well had been sleepwalking.

The sight of her pierced through that unreality, bringing him back into focus.

She was talking with her friends, completely unaware of him standing there. She had her hair pulled back in its usual ponytail, but a few red wisps had escaped and clung close to her soft brown eyes. He used to remind her to fix it, but she'd always say it was too much of a bother untying her ponytail just to tuck away a few unruly strands. She didn't know he just wanted an excuse to see her hair undone, even for a moment.

As always there was an ache inside that wanted him to go to her right now and tell her something, anything. Maybe tell her that he was sorry.

He couldn't, of course. Seven months before, he had decided not to tell her that or anything else.

_But should I tell her I'm going away?_

What a reckless, silly, selfish thing to do! he thought. Hadn't he said he didn't want to do anything that would compromise the mission? Hadn't he decided himself that his two best friends could only know so much of the plan? And why should he disturb her by telling her any of this? What in the world for? So that she would be concerned over him?

She had no reason to be. They hadn't had a conversation in seven months. Ginny now lived a life far removed from his. Even during his stay at the Burrow last summer, she maintained a polite distance from him, greeting him in the morning, nonchalantly passing him the plate during dinner, letting him use the stairs first...there was no longer warmth in her eyes when she looked at him. Just a foreign, bland stare.

_We don't owe each other anything_, he sternly told himself. _We had good times, good memories. Let's just leave it at that._

She walked through the large double doors, out of sight.

Harry trudged on, wandering the halls of Hogwarts alone.

It was quarter to seven when his feet led him to the entrance to Dumbledore's quarters. He was half-afraid no one would be there, but then he saw Hermione standing conspicuously by herself in front of the stone gargoyle. He tried to ignore his disappointment at Ron's absence, and smiled at her in greeting.

She smiled back, though her eyes were sad and muted. He stood beside her without saying anything. Prior to coming here, he had decided not to ask about Ron if he hadn't already shown up. Ron hadn't spoken to him at all after that fight in Dumbledore's office; he buried himself in the covers of his bed that night and the next day left the dormitory before Harry even woke. They met each other in the Great Hall for breakfast, but neither one spoke to the other—Ron idly stirred the remaining cereal in his bowl and scowled down at the soggy mess.

But Hermione didn't wait for Harry to ask. "I talked to him about tonight, but like the prat he is he didn't give me a straight answer. Kind of like you, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged with forced nonchalance. "Well, we still have a few minutes."

She crossed her arms. "It's your fault too, you know. You just had to pick a fight with him. Knowing Ron...oh, what's the use? I'll never understand you two."

Harry simply smiled. "Guess I haven't been having much luck with Weasleys recently."

He immediately regretted saying that, because she turned to him and asked, "What about Ginny? Did you—"

"I haven't decided yet," he said.

She looked at him as if she knew he was lying, but said, "You don't have much time left to do it. You don't have to tell her anything else, but at least let her know you're going away. At least tell her goodbye!"

"I know."

She just watched him, and said nothing further.

They waited together in the hallway, but seven came around and there was still no sign of their friend. Harry knew it was time; they had to go on.

"Let's go up." He couldn't believe how quiet his voice had become.

She turned to look at him, biting her lip. "Would Dumbledore mind terribly if we were a few minutes late?"

"I rather think he would," replied Harry, "given how important this is."

She nodded her head, eyes downcast.

"It's not your fault," he said. He turned to the gargoyle and said, "Fiddlesticks!" It jumped aside, and let them through to the moving stairs.

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Hermione, as they stepped together onto the moving stairs. He simply replied, "It's not your fault."

They arrived at the door and Harry knocked. "Come in," Dumbledore called from the other side.

He hesitated a moment, then turned the knob and walked in. "Good evening, Headm—"

His tongue froze against his teeth as the man standing beside Dumbledore's desk turned to face him. There, dressed in a brown, shaggy cloak and gazing at him with his fearsome, magical eye, was Alastor Moody.

Dumbledore smiled and stood up, motioning with his hands. "It's alright, Harry. Do come in. You too, Ms. Granger."

Noting Harry's hesitation, Moody nodded in greeting and said, "S'alright, lad, miss. Nothing to worry about here."

Harry nodded, though he was only slightly reassured. The image of Barty Crouch Jr. behind that gnarled face remained fresh in his mind. Still, he stepped into the room. Hermione followed him, her wide-eyed gaze caught not by the sight of Moody, but by the objects lying on Dumbledore's table.

Harry looked at them as well—and was amazed. On the left side was a large sealed jar with a small glass spigot on its side. It was filled to the brim with clear liquid, and floating in there was something that resembled a curled-up human fetus. It only resembled it, though, for on closer inspection he realized that it didn't have eyes, or a nose, or a mouth.

On the right side of the desk was something familiar—the Pensieve. The bowl that reflected Dumbledore's thoughts remained much the same, except that its contents didn't look at all like liquid silver. Instead, they were as clear as spring water.

Dumbledore activated the Security Charms and walked towards them, still smiling. "Good evening to you both. Now that you are here we may begin immediately. We have important things to do before the hour ends, so I take it…" his eyes flickered from one to the other, "…all are here that would be here?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, and Harry nodded. "Sorry, sir."

"We shall make do, Harry, never fear." He took him by the shoulder and motioned to Moody. "I will now introduce to you the first of your bodyguards…"

"Alastor Moody," the other man said, hobbling forward. He extended his hand to Harry. "We've never been properly introduced."

Harry shook hands and said, "How do you do?" Moody's lips split into a grin that Harry didn't find entirely pleasant.

Dumbledore said, "Your other bodyguard, Daniel Oaks, cannot be with us at the moment as his presence here will not go unnoticed by spies. You will meet him later on." He motioned with his hand, and three chairs scurried over from the sides of the room and stopped behind his guests. "Now, if you will make yourselves comfortable, we can begin."

"Um, Professor," Hermione timidly said as they sat down, "that thing in the jar…"

Dumbledore nodded. "I trust you know what a homunculus is? Ah, but I should know better than to ask, Ms. Granger."

He caught all of them in his gaze and went on, "The first of our tasks is to ensure that Harry will be completely safe on this journey he is undertaking. Bodyguards, of course, will be necessary, but as an added precaution we will be using this," he gestured at the jar on the desk. "This is the main reason we are here tonight—the creation of the homunculus.

"Now Harry, if you don't mind—"

His speech was interrupted by a knock on the door. Immediately, Moody's hand slipped into his pocket and his eye swung to the entrance. All gazed tensely at the door.

Finally, Moody said, "Potter, Ms. Granger, I don't suppose either of you have any red-headed friends?"

Hermione practically leaped out of her chair. "Ron!" she cried and ran for the door. Against his will, Harry felt a smile growing on his face.

"Well, well," said Dumbledore, beaming at Harry. "I thought it would be out of character for him not to be here."

From behind him, Harry heard snatches of rapid conversation:

"You made it! You prat, I'm going to kill you—"

"Hermione! Not here, okay? Why's it so dark—

"Get to your seat already! You really had us going there, you dope—"

"Well, I had to take dinner first, you know—"

"For heaven's sakes, you'd be late for your own funeral—"

"Say, isn't that—"

"Yes, he's Harry's bodyguard—"

"What! You've got be kidding—"

"Shhhh!"

Hermione dragged Ron to where Harry was, another chair scampering up behind them.

"Good evening, Ron Weasley," said the Headmaster. "I'm glad you could join us tonight."

Ron flushed slightly and said, "Good evening Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Moody. Sorry about being late."

"No harm done. Please, take a seat while I make my preparations."

The chair positioned itself between Harry and Hermione, and Ron sat down. Hermione pursed her lips as neither boy acknowledged the other's presence, but stared straight ahead. Ron's composure, however, collapsed quickly when he spied the jar in Dumbledore's hands. "What the bloody hell is that thing?" he cried.

Hermione slapped at his shoulder. "Mind your manners, Ron! That's the homunculus. That's what Harry's here for."

Ron eyed it, looking rather queasy. "Um, it's really not alive, right?"

"No it's not, Ronald," replied Dumbledore, "but the success of our plans rests on its _pretending_ to be alive."

He turned to Harry. "Please sit next to the Pensieve."

Harry stood up and walked over to the bowl. The chair skittered forward to stand behind him. "Now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "we shall give the homunculus your thoughts. To accomplish this, I have modified the Pensieve: it will copy your thoughts and memories, and transfer them to the mind of the homunculus. Its behavior will then be attuned to yours. You need not worry about anything—this process will not harm your memories in any way.

"To begin the thought transfer process, I must cast a spell on you to put you to sleep. The transfer will take one hour. We can start anytime you are ready."

Harry turned his gaze to where Ron and Hermione still sat. Ron's mouth was a tense, narrow line. There was apprehension in Hermione's eyes, but she smiled encouragingly and reached for Ron's hand.

Without taking his eyes off them, Harry said, "I'm ready."

Dumbledore approached him, his sky blue robes blocking Harry's friends from sight. Harry looked up at the old man's kindly face, and at the wand slowly descending upon him.

"_Hypnos."_

_And Harry slipped down a dark tunnel, ending in a place that glowed blue as a perfect sky. He lay there suspended for what seemed ages, feeling weightless as air. Then the wind came. Its cold touch cut through mind and memory, emptying him of joy, sorrow, fear. Visions flashed like lightning—he could see the faces of people he knew, he could see—_

_The Snitch clasped in both his hands, the crowd cheering wildly in the stands—_

_His Patronus, a brilliant silver stag, gracefully leaping past him—_

_Cedric Diggory, lifeless on the ground, fear and confusion the last thing in his eyes—_

_A jewel, red as blood—_

_A horrible face with crimson, reptilian eyes—_

_Standing stones, ancient, grey—_

_A rose—_

_A forest—_

_A bowl of water—_

_An empty, dust-filled house—_

_And Ginny, replacing the glasses on his face and smiling, gazing at him with an emotion he could not (would not) name—_

He woke with a start as a hand roughly grabbed his shoulder. "Harry," someone cried, shaking him, "Harry, wake up!"

Harry blinked rapidly and adjusted the glasses on his face. His body felt stiff and his mind cobwebby, like he'd been asleep for days. He peered up and saw Ron's worried face.

"What happened?" asked Harry. He gazed bemusedly at his right hand, dipped into the waters of the Pensieve. The liquid was no longer clear, but a strange azure.

Dumbledore spoke from behind Ron. "Please help him stand, Mr. Weasley. We need to discuss something." Ron quickly obeyed, gripping Harry by the arm and pulling him to his feet. Harry withdrew his hand from the Pensieve, unsurprised that it was not the least bit wet.

Dumbledore was sitting between Moody and Hermione in a circle of chairs. The Headmaster's expression looked grave. Hermione's face was pale, and Moody's jagged brows were knit into a scowl.

"Are you alright, Harry?" asked Dumbledore. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," said Harry. "I feel like I'm made of jelly, but I'm okay."

"That sensation will go away in a few moments. Miss Granger, please get him some water from the pitcher by the cabinet over there. Thank you." He motioned for Harry to sit beside him. Ron helped him there and sat down himself.

"I'm afraid I have bad news," said Dumbledore, and nodded to Moody. The other man said, "Just after you went to sleep an owl arrived from Headquarters. They received a message from one of our informants in the south." He raised a piece of parchment clutched in his bony hand. The muscles on his jaws tightened; he looked almost feral. "Two hours ago, Death Eaters attacked the village of Thistleberry in Wales. Five civilians dead, six are missing."

Harry felt the bottom drop out from under his guts. "Voldemort's already made his move," he said. Ron shot him a nervous look, but he didn't notice.

Hermione came to his side and handed him a glass of cold water, which he downed quickly. "What do we do now?" she asked quietly.

"Now," said Dumbledore, "I'm afraid we've precious little time. This attack is just a prelude. Within the next few days, more vicious ones will occur. We must act _now_." He looked each of them in the eye. "I propose that the journey begin the day after tomorrow, on Saturday. Hogsmeade will have a festival then, commemorating 500 years since its founding. Perhaps we can make an exception this year and have our Hogsmeade weekend a little early. With this as cover, we can attempt the switch. Are we agreed?"

Harry's felt his spirits plummet. Did he have to leave so soon? He looked about and saw his feelings mirrored on the faces of his friends.

But no one objected.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Very well. The homunculus will be ready by tomorrow. I will send you your final instructions by then."

Moody stood up. "Can't waste any time then," he said. "We have to get this little bugger on its feet before tomorrow night." He lurched over to the jar and conjured a bucket beside the table. Turning the spigot, he began draining the clear oily substance into the bucket.

Dumbledore said to Harry, "There is one last thing that brooks attention. Have you chosen an alias?"

Harry nodded. He'd picked the most forgettable name he could think of. "Robert Jerome Smith."

The Headmaster nodded in approval. "Hold out your hand."

Harry did so. Dumbledore placed a yellow pill on his outstretched palm, pointed his wand at it, and muttered the name.

"Er, what's that, Professor?" Ron asked, eyeing the tiny object.

"This is the last of Harry's safeguards," Dumbledore replied, "a Polymien Pill. It is a more stable version of the Polyjuice. As he is, Harry will have a difficult time traveling without detection. In order to preserve his safety we must keep his identity locked away. From the moment the switch has taken place, his double will be Harry Potter and he will be Robert Jerome Smith."

He turned to Harry and said, "The command word will be your full alias. Say it completely and your disguise will activate. Remember to keep it on over the course of your journey. If for any reason you must reveal who you are, the command word to revoke the disguise is your real name—middle name included. Take the pill now Harry, but do not activate the disguise until after the switch. Do you understand?"

"Yes Professor," said Harry. Gathering his courage, he downed the pill and reached for the glass beside him.

"Good," said Dumbledore, then turned to the Ron and Hermione. "Do you have any questions about the instructions I gave you?"

Both replied no. Curious, Harry asked, "What instructions?"

"Our job is to watch over your double," replied Hermione. "We're to make sure it will behave exactly like you. It may have a hard time adjusting to its environment at first, even though it has your memories and basic personality. We have to make sure it behaves right. Clandestinely, of course." Her eyes suddenly sparkled with excitement. "This is going to be so interesting! I get see first-hand how a magical humanoid construct operates!"

Ron looked on in distaste. "Hate to break it to you, Hermione, but I don't think you'll be writing a research paper on this one."

"Alright, my friends," said Dumbledore, "Alastor and I shall take it from here. You all need rest, so off to bed with you. Leave the work to us old men." He smiled at them once more, despite the worry in his eyes. "Please remember not to discuss the matter beyond this room."

They filed out, and the last thing Harry saw before he walked out the door was the Headmaster holding the Pensieve in both aged hands, slowly tipping it into the open mouth of the jar. The azure liquid washed over the head of the inhuman fetus, like a strange form of baptism.

Moments later they were in the hall again, and Harry found himself face to face with Ron. It struck him then that they had spent a whole day without a proper conversation.

Ron stared at him quietly. Finally, he said, "Hey."

"Hey," returned Harry. He fiddled with the sleeves of his robes, wordless, then said off-handedly, "Didn't think you'd be coming."

Ron was just as nonchalant. "Didn't you now?"

"Well, you seemed pretty worked up back then."

Ron shrugged and scratched an ear that had gone slightly red.

"Yeah…well…I couldn't let you face this alone, right? Even if it's going to be just sitting on the bleachers again for me. Not that I enjoy rooting for a bum like you."

"It would help if you weren't such a pig-headed prat."

"Pot."

"Kettle."

"Oh," Hermione cut in, exasperated, "When are you two going to knock it off?"

Harry stopped fighting it—he smiled, and so did Ron. Watching them, Hermione heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Boys," she muttered, as she started for Gryffindor.

Harry and Ron caught up with her. "You can't understand us, you know," Ron said to her, grinning. "Stop trying and just live with it."

"Idiot," Hermione retorted. She linked one arm with Ron's and the other with Harry's, pulling them closer to her. They were quiet for a time, as if this simple act said everything that needed saying and mended everything that had been damaged.

_Friday morning._

Alastor Moody stood on the platform of the Hogwarts Express, suitcase in hand, patiently waiting. The smoke from the locomotive mingled with the early morning mist, scattering sunshine around him. There was a chilly nip in the air, a sure signal that autumn was near. Soon he would feel his scars aching more often, like a hundred little stitches on his flesh.

Moody pulled his ancient, mouse-colored hat lower over his eyes and meticulously searched the faces of the people nearby. That spy business itched in his brain. He wished there was some way to get a crack at that intruder, despite Dumbledore's orders. At least find out who it was. If he only had some clues...

But no one from the handful of people around him seemed out of the ordinary, just a bunch of Hogsmeade residents on their way to London, perhaps for some frantic last-minute grocery shopping before tomorrow's festival. It looked like a peaceful, uneventful, thoroughly boring journey back. It was just as well: he and Dumbledore had been working on the decoy all night.

Presently, he saw Dumbledore striding towards him from station entrance. As usual, the man didn't look the least bit tired. Moody had to envy him for that.

He removed his hat, met Dumbledore halfway, shook hands.

"Goodbye, Alastor," said the Headmaster, "it was a pleasure seeing you again."

"Same here, Professor," Moody replied, loud enough for all to hear. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "How's our little friend?"

"I imagine he'll be wanting a set of clothes," the Headmaster whispered back. Then he said in a normal voice, "I hope you enjoy your trip. Say hello to our friends for me."

"I shall." Moody released his hand as the train whistle sang. He put on his traveler's hat and stepped off the platform onto the train. Five minutes later, the train began to roll away from the station. As it picked up speed, Moody stuck out his hat and waved at Dumbledore, who waved back. A few seconds later, the train vanished into the forests surrounding Hogwarts.

Several hours later, the Hogwarts Express reached Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross, London. As the passengers disembarked, the conductor noticed that they were missing one person—a strange old gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a heavy traveler's cloak. He had passed that man's compartment several hours back and heard him blissfully snoring in his seat. Thinking that he was still asleep, he hurried along the corridor to wake him up.

When the conductor reached Moody's compartment and slid open the door, there was only a quiet, empty room…and an unlatched window.

At around the same time, in a hidden base somewhere in the mountains north of London, Sirius Black received an owl post from Hogwarts. The letter read as thus:

_I will be detained here for a while. Came down with a nasty bout of flu and rheumatism to boot. The Headmaster has suggested I stay for treatment. I will let you know when I am scheduled to return. Give my regards to the old farts._

_A. M._

_Saturday morning._

The long line of sleek black carriages bearing the Hogwarts studentry rattled along the bumpy road to Hogsmeade. Visitors usually traveled to the wizard town by foot, but this year was clearly an exception. Dumbledore had decreed the day before that, for security reasons, it would be best for the students to travel by carriage. Everyone was elated by the announcement. Carriages would surely cut the travel time to Hogsmeade by half.

No one had considered that speed would come at the price of comfort.

"H-How much l-l-l-longer-r till H-Ho-Hogsm-meade?" Hermione managed to say, as she clutched tightly at Ron beside her. Around them the carriage was shuddering so violently over the uneven country road that Harry thought it a miracle it hadn't fallen over.

"C-C-Can't say," Ron replied. "Sh-shouldn't be m-mu-much further-r-r."

Opposite them, Harry could only hope this was true as he was rocked from one side to the other. He spread his feet wide and planted both hands on his seat. This helped a bit.

Hermione said, "Aft-after this jaunt I-I'm going to tu-treat myself to a n-nice sta-ble meal at The Th-Th-three Broomsticks!"

Ron cracked a grin. "C-Care for some R-Rocky Road?"

BANG.

The carriage vaulted into the air as it hit a sharp bump. Harry felt his insides drop away as he was suspended in the air for a full second. His hair actually brushed the ceiling. Then he dropped back into his seat as the carriage hit the ground once more.

Adjusting his glasses, he spied Ron clutching his head painfully in both hands. Being the tallest of the three had its disadvantages.

"Y-You 'kay, Ron?" Harry asked.

Ron didn't look up. "A-Ask me later when m-my head's s-stopped spin-ning."

Hermione was smoothing his mussed-up hair, but also said, "Take that, cornball."

Just then, the carriage came to a halt. Harry sank into his backrest while Ron and Hermione tried their best not to fall off their seats. There was a chorus of loud whinnying, as if the invisible horses were all venting their relief.

"Finally," Hermione sighed and threw the door open. Sunshine flooded in, and beyond lay the tranquil, picturesque town of Hogsmeade.

A large colorful banner was strung from one end of the main street to the other—"HOGSMEADE'S 500th FOUNDATION DAY," it said in a myriad of rippling colors. Down the street and its adjoining paths, smaller banners stretched from building to building. Sunshine glittered on brightly tinted windows. The aroma of freshly cooked pastries wafted from the line of booths on the street. In the distance, a band played a few notes in practice. It was still early, but the air felt heavy with the promise of festivities.

Harry smiled, even though there was a certain heaviness in his heart. When night fell he would be leaving Hogwarts. That thought had kept him awake last night, but he forced himself out of bed that morning. This was his last day. Though he could not openly speak to his friends about it, they had forged a silent pact to thoroughly enjoy these last few hours together.

One by one they stepped out of the carriage. All around them the rest of Hogwarts followed suit, relishing the fresh air, warm sunshine, and stable ground. Here and there they spied a Hogwarts teacher standing among the students, giving last-minute instructions. Dumbledore had asked the Heads of each House to accompany their respective members, and a handful of other professors had come along for good measure.

Harry turned to Ron, who was still clutching his head. "Better now?" he asked.

"I guess," Ron replied. "Better than poor Neville, anyway." Ron motioned to the portly Gryffindor from the nearby carriage. Neville Longbottom had bent over with both hands on his knees, looking green and ready to retch, while Dean Thomas sympathetically patted his back.

"Where do we go first?" Hermione asked, looking around.

"With a ride like that, I don't think I'm ready for much of a meal," Harry said. "Let's just shop for a bit."

For the next few hours they wandered into all their favorite shops, starting from Zonko's down to Honeydukes. Harry spent a small fortune there on sweets for both his friends, even as Ron and Hermione got him going-away presents—Ron's was a regenerating stationary set ("To tempt you to write us") and Hermione's was a Wizard First Aid Kit ("You'll never know what might happen along the way"). They took a long time moving from one place to another, winding their way through the overcrowded streets. There was so much to see. Harlequins bearing golden masks and wooden swords pranced through the streets. In the plaza, street performers re-enacted how Hogsmeade was founded way back in the early 1500s. Confetti fluttered down onto the cobblestone roads, dropped by battalions of owls from the local Post Office.

It was early afternoon when they finally made it to their last destination—The Three Broomsticks. "Not a moment too soon," said Ron, looking ravenous.

"Let's just hope we can find someplace to sit," Hermione said as they came in through the door. "Oh, can I leave it to you? I need to have a word with Professor McGonagall over there."

"Give it a break, Hermione," Ron chided. "Even teachers want a vacation too."

Hermione ignored him. "If you find a booth, could you also order a butterbeer for me?"

"We'll handle it," said Harry. She left as they looked about for seats.

The Inn was doing good business today, Harry thought. All around him was a motley crowd of visitors. Wizards and witches of all shapes and sizes filled the tables. Dwarves sauntered to the bar, shouting for drinks. A lone ogre sat on the other end of the room, his table nearly bending beneath the amount of food piled upon it. A few surly goblins huddled in one corner table, casting furtive glances and whispering among themselves.

He found a recently vacated table near the door. After giving their orders, Ron nudged him and pointed at the bar. Harry turned and saw Professor Summershield leaning on one elbow, having an animated discussion with Professor Sprout. After finishing her mug of butterbeer, she dropped a few coins on the bar, bid Sprout goodbye, and headed for the door.

A number of boys turned their heads she passed. Who wouldn't? Adrianna Summershield was a pale-skinned, dark-haired, stunningly beautiful young woman. Harry didn't find this as impressive as the fact that she was the only Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher he knew that had lasted more than an entire school year. Ron, however, thought differently. He made sure he got a good eyeful before she left the tavern. Harry had to nudge him when Hermione returned to their booth.

"Was that Professor Summershield that just passed by?" she asked.

"Dunno," Ron replied, nonchalantly sucking on a sugarquill. "Was it, Harry?"

Harry tried not to smile. "It was. I imagine Professor Dumbledore asked her to come along for security reasons." He briefly wondered if Dumbledore had let her in on their plan.

Hermione sat down a good two feet away from Ron. "Perhaps. Or maybe she was taking the opportunity to let people ogle her. _Isn't that right, Ron?_" she said, scowling.

Ron put on his best scandalized look (which Harry had to agree was rather good, for Ron). "Hermione!" he cried. "I was NOT ogling her! How can you say that? I would never—look, just ask Harry."

She cocked her eyebrow at him. Harry merely tasted the pie that had been plunked down before him, and blandly said, "I think I need more ice cream with my slice." He got up and strolled to the counter, leaving Ron to his fate.

They spent the next two hours there, drinking butterbeer, and talking, and talking. They reminisced about their adventures from their First year to the present, dug up and dissected every embarrassing moment, sifted through every bright memory. Eventually the discussion drifted to how Sirius and Remus were doing, wherever they were. And of course, to Hagrid, gone far too long among the giants in the hills of Northern Ireland.

They still had some time when they left The Three Broomsticks, so they walked some more, meandering through the teeming streets of Hogsmeade until they neared the outskirts of town. There the road curved around a small, grassy hill, at the top of which lay a large flat rock surrounded by wildflowers. They climbed up the hill, wisps of dandelions clinging to their legs. Without thinking, Harry bent and took one in his hand. They reached the top and sat down on the grass, leaning against the rock.

There was very little left to share, so they sat quietly together, listening as the distant sounds of voices and music drifted up to them. There was a slight chill in the breeze, reminding Harry that summer had come and gone.

All of Hogsmeade lay before them, the dwindling sunshine bathing its shops and houses in shades of orange and gold. Its streets teemed with wandering students and vendors hawking their wares. And upon the deep blue horizon, veiled by purple shadows, Hogwarts itself lay dreaming over the dark mirror of its lake. Its bright banners still floated high in the evening breeze, and the setting sun still flashed upon the highest towers.

A loud 'POP!' suddenly sounded from nearby. Harry looked just in time to see fireworks erupting from a house's chimney. It hissed into the air and blossomed into a fountain of falling color. Soon other chimneys shot fireworks, illuminating the darkening sky. As they watched, the wind came again, and a cloud of dandelions blooms took to flight.

"Beautiful," sighed Hermione as she tucked her legs beneath her. Ron merely smiled, inched closer to her, and slipped his arm around her shoulders.

This is all our world, thought Harry, spellbound. In here was everything that ever mattered to him, everything he had ever chosen to love. It seemed almost absurd that even now, a war was waiting to be waged, and that should he fail his task all this may well be blown to dust.

He was glad, then, for this moment.

Abruptly, Harry said, "Two weeks from now, we'll get together again at The Three Broomsticks. And I'll buy each of you a glass of butterbeer."

Ron smiled. "That a promise, Harry?"

"Yes."

"But don't say goodbye yet," said Hermione, as she rested her head on Ron's shoulder. "Not right now. Please?"

They sat together as evening came and the stars winked into view. And while this time was beautiful, and theirs to have, Harry knew it wasn't really perfect.

He stared sadly at the dandelion in his grasp, a memory glimmering in his mind. Even now he could imagine it held between the fingers of a pale, freckled hand, still see it being blown into a pristine puff, and hear a voice brightly coaxing, _Make a wish, Harry._

Yeah, he thought. He blew at the dandelion. Tiny blossoms danced a fairy jig before his eyes.

_I wish I could afford to be more honest with you, Ginny, _he thought, watching the wind bear the dandelions away, _And I wish you were here with us._

They stayed till six o'clock, till the windows of Hogwarts lit up as if to call them home. Then they retraced their steps to their carriage.

Their vehicle had remained where it was, but someone had drawn the shades of every window. Harry felt dread creep into his heart with every step he took towards it. He knew that the moment they stepped inside, it would be goodbye.

Hermione suddenly stopped walking. Ron and Harry turned to stare at her. She had lowered her head and was quivering slightly.

"I'll be okay," she mumbled. "Just…just give me a minute will you?"

If there was one thing Harry hated seeing, it was Hermione in tears. Ron liked it even less. He watched her, his lips drawing into a thin, hard line. Then he turned to Harry. "I don't care what Dumbledore said. Just say the word Harry, and we're going with you."

Harry didn't have the heart to rebuke him for talking about it. He felt that same guilt wash over him. Hogwarts was as much their world as it was his—didn't they have the same right to protect it?

But something in him pushed that thought away. He had to do this alone. Had to.

"Thanks, Ron," he whispered, "but the answer's still no. You know why."

Before Ron could reply, Hermione reached out and grasped his arm. "Don't, you two. Just don't." She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robes and tried to smile. "I'm fine. Really."

They stood there together for a while, not saying a word. Finally, Ron lowered his head and said, "Well, what are we waiting for?" He stepped into the carriage, taking Hermione with him. Harry followed them in.

As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they saw Mad-Eye Moody silently waiting inside, hat and walking staff on his lap. His magical eye scrutinized each of them as they took their seats and shut the door. When they were settled, Moody turned on a small lamp on the wall and rapped the ceiling twice with his staff. "Get going," he muttered, "and _slowly_, mind."

The carriage shuddered forward, rocking from side to side. But the ride this time was stable enough for them to speak normally. Neither Harry nor his friends noticed—the cloaked stranger sitting beside Moody had completely arrested their attention.

Moody's eye turned to his companion. "Show them your face, lad."

The figure pulled back its hood. Ron's mouth dropped open; Hermione gasped, eyes round; for several seconds, Harry ceased to breathe.

It was one thing for them expecting to meet Harry's exact duplicate, but quite another to see it in the flesh. It was as if someone had placed a perfect mirror directly across Harry. The homunculus had the same mass of dark, messy hair, the same pale skin, the same emerald green for its eyes. An identical lightning bolt scar was etched on its forehead. It was even dressed like Harry, from the scarf of Gryffindor colors around its neck to the worn sneakers on its feet.

For five minutes, they stared at one another. The three of them said nothing. The homunculus said nothing back, but shifted its gaze from one person to another. It curved its hands tightly around its knees.

Finally, Harry said, "Say something."

He had not meant to sound rude, but curiosity had completely overtaken sensibility by this point.

His double obliged him. First it did something eerily human—it cleared its throat. Then it said, "Hello. It's nice to meet you," and smiled.

Beside him, Harry felt Ron flinch. He couldn't blame him—they could have been listening to a recording or a perfectly executed ventriloquist trick.

And that _smile_.

Moody, whose eye never ceased keeping watch, suddenly spoke up. "We're nearing Hogwarts." He nodded deferentially to them. "If there is anything you need to say, best say it now."

Harry nodded back, then reached beneath his seat and felt around for the bag he had prepared the night before. Inside were a few possessions he needed for the journey—a change of clothes, some toiletries, and his Invisibility cloak. Everything else he owned—his books, the Marauder's Map, his beloved Firebolt, was now in the care of Ron, Hermione and the homunculus.

He turned to Ron, who had woken from his stupor.

"Look after Hedwig for me, okay?" Harry said. "Don't let her get lonely."

Ron nodded. "I will. I promise."

Hermione hugged him then, her voice quavering. "Goodbye, Harry. And you remember _your _promise, okay?"

Harry felt a painful lump in his throat as he hugged her back. "I'll remember. In two weeks time, at The Three Broomsticks."

"I'll look forward to it," Ron said, taking Harry's hand and shaking it. Then he averted his eyes. "Take care."

"Yeah, you too Ron. Keep an eye on Hermione. Make sure she doesn't burst a vein studying."

"That's it Harry, make me feel better," Hermione mumbled, sitting back and wiping her eyes.

"And don't make her cry either," Harry added.

"You're a fine one to talk," Ron said, grinning wryly.

Moody shut off the lamp as the carriage came to a halt. Hermione briefly kissed Harry's cheek before opening the door and stepping out. Ron gripped Harry's hand one last time, thumped his shoulder, and silently followed her.

"Go on," Moody said to the homunculus. It nodded to him and to Harry, and then left the carriage, closing the door behind it. The carriage lurched forward, bearing Harry and Moody away.

Harry had to force himself from pulling the curtains back for one last look. For several moments he just sat there with his eyes closed, feeling as if all the life had been snuffed out of him. He said nothing for a long while.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the lamp was on again. Moody was watching him from his seat. "You know what must be done, lad," said the old man, not unkindly.

Not for the first time, Harry felt doubt nagging at his mind. But he could not afford to be weak, not now. Not in front of Moody.

He took a deep breath and said, "Robert Jerome Smith."

Immediately he felt a strange tingling sensation, beginning from his toes all the way to the roots of his hair. For few seconds he felt his flesh prickling all over, as if he were growing a second skin. Then the feeling passed.

"Give me your glasses and put these on," Moody said, handing him a pair of silver spectacles. Harry took off his round glasses and slipped the new ones on. Moody studied him for a minute, and then nodded.

"Impressive. Not even I can see through it. Dumbledore's outdone himself again." He reached into his pocket and gave Harry a small mirror. "See for yourself."

Harry peered at the glass, and received his second shock for the day. Again, it was one thing to be told he would look different, quite another to look in a mirror and see a stranger's face.

His messy dark hair had been completely replaced by short, neatly cut auburn hair. Instead of vivid green his eyes had turned the deep blue of the lake in summer. His lips were thinner, and his skin tone tan, as if he had spent hours working outdoors. Most of all, there was no trace of the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

It was then that Harry realized that, at least for the meantime, he had escaped his own destiny. He had ceased to be Harry Potter.

_Saturday night._

Harry lay silently on his sleeping bag. He had been trying to fall asleep for some time, and failing miserably at it. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling of Hagrid's hut.

Moody had led the carriage here, saying, "This is where will stay for now, as per Dumbledore's instructions. We leave the grounds at midnight." The moment the carriage halted in front of Hagrid's house, Moody leaped out and hurried towards the door. After making sure no one was laying an ambush inside, he beckoned for Harry to follow. Moody took out his wand. With a few whispered words, he erased their prints on the footpath. The carriage clattered away, leaving them alone. Then they went inside.

Hagrid's hut was lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the dusty windows. Moody said, "Stay here for a moment while I prepare. Don't touch anything, and for Merlin's sakes don't turn on the light." He then walked to one window and peered outside. Satisfied that they were alone, he picked up a large, framed painting that had been propped nearby. The moonlight shone on it briefly and Harry caught a glimpse of its surface. It wasn't a painting at all, but a framed three-dimensional picture of a room. Harry quickly realized what it was—a picture of the room they were in, viewed from the outside!

Before he could form a question, Moody had fitted the frame onto the window with the picture facing out. He moved to the next window, picked up another picture of the room at a different angle, and attached it as well. Before long he had all the windows covered, and the room was flooded by inky darkness. "There," he heard Moody say, "now when someone comes snooping about the cabin, all they'll see living in here will be a bit of moonlight and a lot of dust sprites. _Lumos."_

By the light of Moody's wand, Harry could see two sleeping bags spread on the floor. Moody stood close to the table, busy lighting a gas lap.

"It's a long wait till midnight, lad," he said, without looking up. "Best you get some rest for now. Powerful long way ahead."

"Where exactly do we go from here?" asked Harry. He tried to hide the note of unease in his voice. He still was not comfortable in Moody's presence.

"I'll tell you later, when we get off the grounds," replied Moody. "Now, no talking. I've made the cabin light-proof but any spy worth his salt can hear us yammering in here. Try and get some sleep."

That had been three hours before, and Harry hadn't been able to get so much as a wink.

He looked about him. Hagrid's hut had not changed much, at least not physically. It was the little things—the gaps on the line of tankards and pots on the shelves, the underlying scent of mothballs from the closet, the layer of dust on the tables—that marked the absence of their owner. Harry had not noticed before how neatly things were arranged in the house, how ready for use, as if Hagrid had not meant to be away for long. Harry could imagine Hagrid's enormous frame trudging through the doorway, Fang barking loudly by his side—"'Ello der 'Arry. Sorry 'bout takin' so long. Not'un easy job being Ambassater, ye know."

A year ago, something in him had envied Hagrid, and Sirius and Remus. They were out there _doing_ something—actively opposing the Dark Lord—while he had to stay in the trenches with his head down. But now he could no longer complain. He was putting his life on the line along with everyone else.

Then the utter totality of that thought hit him, and he shuddered as a cold void gaped in his guts. He was not only facing the danger of Voldemort killing him, he was leaving his identity behind with someone else!

Even now he could see the homunculus sleeping (did it sleep?) on his comfortable four-poster bed. Tomorrow at breakfast it would be sitting with the Gryffindors in the Great Hall. It would be wandering the halls like any other student. It would be attending all his classes, doing all his homework, making all his grades. It would be speaking with McGonagall about the Quidditch season. It would be with Ron and Hermione—it would even be dealing with Draco Malfoy. Not only was Harry courting death, he was putting his life in Hogwarts on the line.

And on the heels of that came another thought—what if he never made it back? Would the homunculus go on pretending to be him? Would they even realize he was gone?

Would Ginny?

Harry realized that his heart was beating much too fast. _Stop it,_ he said to himself, _you're letting your imagination run wild, you ninny!_ In the first place, Dumbledore had done everything possible to keep him safe. Second, dying was NOT an option. He was going to win this. He was going to come back.

He lay flat on his back and threw his arm over his eyes, as if this would shut out his fears. But the thought of Ginny refused to stay quiet.

She may never know he'd left.

"She doesn't have to know," he muttered, "it's not in the plan."

_No, of course not. It's not in YOUR plan._

Then the thought came, unbidden:

_Ginny doesn't know about the homunculus._

_But the homunculus knows about her._

The thought came so forcefully that Harry sat up in an instant. It was as if a switch flicked on in his head, illuminating everything in a harsh, bright light. That decided it for him—he had to tell her. She had to know.

He turned his head fearfully to the other sleeping bag, not five steps away. Moody lay on his back, wand near his right hand, hat on his chest. Both his eyes were shut and Harry could hear him wheezing softly. The old man was fitfully asleep.

He could do it, he realized. He could go now, while it was dark and no one was watching.

Harry quietly got up from his bed and put on his shoes. He reached for his bag and carefully withdrew his Invisibility cloak. Slowly, fearing the creaking of the boards, he inched his way to the door.

Hands sweating, teeth clenched tightly, he turned the knob. It felt like ice in his fingers. The door swung two inches open. Not a sound. Glad that Hagrid was prudent with oiling hinges, he allowed the door to open a little bit more. Just a little further and he could make it out.

_Creak._

Harry heard a snort behind him. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. He cast a look backwards, expecting to see that huge magical orb glaring at him, a gravelly voice demanding to know where he was going—

On the floor, Moody muttered something in his sleep, then turned on his side. His brows furrowed, but his eyes remained tightly shut.

Harry briefly wondered how Moody could afford to be a bodyguard if he slept so deeply.

I will only be gone an hour, Harry told him silently. And before his mind changed again or his courage failed him, Harry put on his cloak and slipped out into the night.

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

Things had not gone any easier for Harry that summer after Fourth Year.

It was not as if things had changed in Number 4 Privet Drive, at least, not on the surface. His foster family the Dursleys were still every bit as nasty to him, Dudley every bit as fat, if not more so. They still made Harry do all the cleaning and the cooking and he still had to endure their caustic remarks. They never dared touched him, though. Especially not Dudley, who still smarted from the memory of a pig's tail sticking out of his bottom and the weight of an engorged tongue hanging from his mouth. So they left him well enough alone. As for Harry, he could still look forward to August, when he was scheduled to go to the Burrow and be with Ron and Hermione once more.

It wasn't the Dursleys that made his life difficult—it was his own thoughts. Memories of last school year's events often came drifting back to him, especially thoughts of Cedric. It seemed that the solitude he was given allowed bad memories to fester. They haunted him most in bed, in those odd moments between waking and sleeping. While he sometimes felt like talking to someone about them, he thought better of worrying either his friends or Sirius with his own depression.

"I can get through this," he thought to himself one night as he lay in his little bed. "I've gone through worse." He pulled the covers to his chin and tried to sleep.

That night he had a dream.

He dreamt he was back at Hogwarts, in the middle of a Quidditch tournament. The Chasers of Slytherin and Gryffindor streaked below him, the Quaffle nothing more than a red blur as it was passed from one player to the next. A flash of gold suddenly caught his eye, and in a heartbeat he was racing on his Firebolt straight down at the Snitch that was hovering a foot above the grass. One twist of the broom, one swipe of his hand, and the game was over—Gryffindor had won the last match of the season.

Harry drifted down onto the pitch as his teammates swarmed around him, cheering loudly and slapping one another's backs. Soon the crowd joined in, and Harry found himself in the midst of an excited mob. Before he knew it he was raised onto the shoulders of the Weasley twins and the Quidditch Cup passed into his hands. Grinning broadly, heartbeat thudding in his head, he lifted it high as the crowd around him chanted, "Harry! Harry! Harry!"

It seemed to go on forever. He had never felt happier, never more alive. Then he spied something from the corner of his eye.

Turning, he saw that the Hufflepuff team had gathered in one corner of the field. They stood in solemn, motionless rows, brooms clutched in hand. The line of players was broken by a gap in the middle. When Harry saw this gap he abruptly fell silent. And When the Ravenclaw seeker, Cho Chang, walked onto the pitch, he felt a cold twist in his stomach.

Cho was dressed in battered and muddied Quidditch attire, carrying her broom in one hand. She approached the Hufflepuff team and spoke with them. Harry could not make out what she said, but the team nodded in understanding. When Cho handed them the broom in her hand, Harry finally understood—the broom was not hers, but Cedric's.

It was no longer even a broom, Harry realized, but a coffin. Without a word, four Hufflepuffs hefted it onto their shoulders. Then, led by Cho, they all began to file out of the pitch in a funeral march.

Riveted, Harry watched the whole line of them go. Without thinking, he let go of the Cup, pushed himself off the Weasley twins' shoulders, and began shoving his way through the mob. He had to join them, just had to. He owed it to Cho and to Cedric. But the crowd surged around him, ruffling his hair, slapping his back, getting in his way. He fought his way to the edge of them, calling out to the passing team.

Cho turned to look at him. He had never seen her so beautiful and yet so distant. All the life and sweetness that had once drawn him to her had been bled from her features—Her face was wan and gray, her black brows etched over fathomless eyes. She said nothing; that blank look conveyed all that needed to be said. She left him to the crowd and the Hufflepuffs followed.

That was when Harry woke. The night was still and deep, yet despite the cold air he found himself drenched with sweat.

He sat up slowly and covered his face with his hands. At that moment he knew he could not face the Hufflepuffs out on the pitch. Neither could he face Cho. It was not fair: they had both lost Cedric and he was partly to blame. Why should he get to fly through the air while Cedric lay beneath the dirt?

It took all of two days' brooding before he decided that he was not going to play Quidditch that year, and probably not ever. It would be his penance. It did not seem like much, but it was something.

All that was left to do was tell them—McGonagall, his teammates, Ron and Hermione. He could already imagine what they were going to say, but he blotted the words out of his mind. They were going to have to live with it—he had already decided.

So he half-dreaded the last weeks of July, when he was set to go to the Burrow once more. Still, he packed up his belongings, put his trunk and Hedwig's cage out on the sidewalk, and waited. Presently, a battered old Sedan driven rolled by. Mr. Weasley was driving and Ron was there with him. "Company car," Ron said to Harry as he helped put the luggage in the trunk. "Perfect disguise for wizards on business, or so Dad says. I don't know—all that clunking from the engine makes everyone stare."

"I think it's perfect," Mr. Weasley said. "Nobody'll suspect a car like this to be owned by a wizard! Speaking of which, Harry, does a Rolls-Royce really roll?"

Ron talked the entire long trip to the Burrow, but Harry only half-listened. He could not stop thinking about how to even begin telling any of them his thoughts.

Life in the Burrow was a world of a difference from Privet Drive, but they were the same in the sense that, on the surface, things did not seem to change. Gnomes still squatted in the garden, the ghoul kept making noises in the attic when it felt things got too quiet, the odd collection of objects remained scattered throughout the house, and of course, its inhabitants were as lively as ever.

Despite the burden on his thoughts, Harry was glad to be among friends at last. The bustle of so many people was a welcome distraction. Mr. Weasley still pestered him with questions on how Muggle stuff like "elvelators" and "refereegerators" worked. Fred and George gave demonstrations of several new gags and devices they had developed over the summer, such as the Spitball Sniper and the Bluster Bomb. Mrs. Weasley merely sniffed, unimpressed, and praised Hermione for starting on lessons even during vacation. On her turn, Hermione tried to get both him and Ron to join her study sessions, and he and Ron made a sport out of finding excuses out of it. Ron would talk incessantly of chess and Quidditch, and occasionally Harry would spy him sneaking glances at Hermione at dinner, or lingering a little too long by the room where she was studying.

And then there was Ginny.

It was his third day in the Burrow. Harry had just taken a late shower and had come down into the dining room. Upstairs he could hear Fred and George's thundering experiments, and in the living room not far away, Ron and Hermione's muffled argument. Mrs. Weasley was by the stove, cooking lunch.

"Oh hello dear," she said as Harry walked in. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Do you need any help?"

She smiled at him. "How sweet of you to ask," and shot an irritated glance at the floor above her. "There's little left to do here, unless you know whether the final ingredient to Frugard's stew is parsley or rosemary. I can't seem to remember…"

Harry shook his head. He'd never heard of Frugard's stew, but Mrs. Weasley had never made a meal he hadn't liked.

"Well," she went on, "that's all I need. Hmm, maybe Ginny remembers. I thought I saw her go outside—would you kindly go find her for me and ask?"

"Parsley or rosemary, right? Okay."

"Thank you, dear."

Harry went out into the garden. The sky was blue and cloudless and a warm breeze was blowing from the distant, dreaming mountains. Ginny was nowhere in sight, so he picked a direction at random and started walking.

His feet took him into the meadow beside the house. Like last year it was covered with wildflowers, but until today he hadn't noticed just how many there were. They carpeted the meadow with yellows and oranges, nodding together as the wind blew through them. As Harry strolled into the meadow his nose caught the mix of their fragrance, and he smiled. It was as if the summer felt it had to put on its best in the little time left before the fall.

Remembering what he had to do, Harry started walking towards a lone tree at the edge of the meadow. There he spied a pair of worn brown shoes, its laces striped like candy-canes, lying discarded on the ground. He came closer and peered around the trunk.

Ginny was fast asleep. Her feet were bare, her elbows propped against the tree's thick roots, her head leaning against the trunk. Her mouth was slightly open, a thin lock of bright red hair caught in its corner. In her hands a pair of knitting needles lay tangled with a half-finished scarf and a ball of red yarn. Another ball of gold yarn lay on her lap, and a beige cloth bag hung on a low branch nearby.

Harry was at a loss—should he disturb her just to ask whether parsley or rosemary goes last into Frugard's stew? He watched her for a few moments, half-hoping she would wake up on her own. Then something else caught his eye: a small hard-covered book lay open beside her right knee. The title on the cover was _Ginny Weasley's Treasury of Written Muggle Works_. Curious, Harry picked it up.

The book was turned to the last page, apparently the end of a short story. Harry thumbed to the beginning—the title was _Small Things. _For a few minutes he flipped through the pages, finding an odd assortment of poems, stories, songs, quotes, and passages that really didn't fit under any category, all in neat, cursive handwriting.

He was interrupted by the sound of yawning. Harry pried his gaze from the pages and saw Ginny stretching and opening her eyes. Her gaze fell on his feet, then flicked up to his face.

"Oh!" she squealed, leaping to her feet and nearly tripping over a root in the process. Her face had gone completely pink. Caught, Harry opened his mouth to explain—and found no words. They stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable minute.

"Harry," she said, as if describing the impossible, "how long have you been standing there?"

Harry blinked rapidly. "Er, not long…just a couple of minutes. I was looking for you."

She averted her dazed eyes. "Looking for me?"

"Yeah… your mum wanted to ask you something…"

"Oh, Mum…"

She realized something and began frantically untangling the yarn from the needles.

Harry went on, "Um, your mother wanted to ask about some ingredients for a stew…"

Ginny wasn't listening. She was trying to stuff everything into her bag while attempting to fix her hair. She was only barely succeeding in either.

"Here, let me help," said Harry. He stepped forward, and realized he was still clutching her book in his hands.

Ginny realized this too. She stopped for a minute, staring at it. Harry felt an absurd warmth on his cheeks.

"This is yours, I think…" he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." He thought that was a rather stupid thing to say—What else could he have been doing?

Ginny started putting on her shoes. "Um, thank you. Could you hold it for a bit?"

"Yes, of course." He waited as she continued to fix her bag and her appearance.

Finally she composed herself, drew in a deep breath, and said, "Let's start over, shall we? Good morning."

Seeing her calmed down made Harry relax as well. "Good morning. Here," he said, handing her the book. "Sorry if I startled you."

"No, no, it's okay. I didn't expect to fall asleep like that."

He motioned to the book. "I…didn't know you liked to read."

"Oh, it's a new hobby. I started reading some of the fiction books Hermione left lying around in our room. Seeing that I liked most of much she read she started lending me more titles."

"Is that hers?" he asked, nodding at the book.

She held it up and said. "Oh, this? She gave this to me for my birthday. It's enchanted. It reads aloud whatever's written inside."

She turned the book to the first page and said, "_Recitus_!" The book began to speak in a cultured, female voice:

_Must the winter come so soon?_

_Night after night I hear the hungry deer_

_wander weeping in the wood_

_and from his house of brittle bark hoots the frozen owl._

_Must the winter come so soon?_

"I copied my favorite works onto it," she went on. "Most of what I have here is Muggle stuff from Hermione's collection, although I started researching my own…"

Harry supposed it was only natural that Hermione and Ginny had become such good friends, being both girls and having to share a room. "That's a nice gift she got you," he said.

"Yeah," she replied, grinning. "Sometimes I just sit here and listen to it for hours."

Harry smiled himself and gazed about. "It's really peaceful here. I like it."

In her hands, the book went on:

_My secret love has stars for eyes_

_His face is wise and fair…_

Ginny snapped the book shut. Harry thought her face looked pinched. "You were saying something about Mum a while back," she said quickly.

Harry started. "Of course! Thanks for reminding me. Your mother wanted to ask if the last ingredient for Frugard's stew was—"

"Parsley or rosemary?"

Harry blinked. "Yeah. How did you—"

Ginny threw up her hands. "It's neither! You put in basil—BASIL! I swear she always forgets that one thing! Ooooo, come on." She grabbed her stuff, took Harry by the sleeve and began to drag him back to the house. "I'd better get back there quick before she chooses one or the other."

They hurried back into the meadow. Ginny seemed to realize something; she blushed and let go of his sleeve. Harry decided to fill in the silence.

"So, you often spend time out here?"

"I guess so. If anything it keeps those thugs Fred and George out of my hair." She rolled her eyes. "I mean that literally too—I happen to like my hair color, thankyouverymuch. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, just curious. I haven't seen you much over the last few days."

Ginny looked a bit embarrassed. "Sorry, I haven't been a good host, have I?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant! I just realized, that's all."

"Oh."

Harry quickly changed topics. "So, you like reading stories then?"

"I love reading stories, though I love listening to them more." All around them, yellow and orange blossoms bowed with the wind. She paused to pick up a flower that caught her eye.

"Um, how about you?" she asked, looking at him. "Do you, er, know any good books?" She winced at the words.

"My Aunt and Uncle never got me any books," he replied. "They gave my cousin Dudley tons of books which Dudley never reads but never lends either."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He grinned at her sympathetic look. "It's okay, I prefer Quidditch to reading. Although if you stick someone like Hermione in that situation I bet she'd be climbing the walls."

Ginny laughed. "That's mean!"

He grinned at her. "Well, it's true!"

They reached the Burrow by then, and Ginny called from the door, "Mum! It's basil! You're supposed to put in basil!"

Mrs. Weasley's voice floated out of the kitchen. "What's that? Put it in a basin? Whatever for?"

Ginny rolled her eyes as she removed her shoes. "I'm coming in to help—don't touch anything!" She placed the wildflower into a nearby vase and turned to Harry. "I better get over there. Sorry about making you go out of your way to get me."

"Oh, no trouble. It was nice out today, so I'm glad I did."

"Okay. I'll see you later."

"Later. Say, don't overdo the reading bit or you might end up another Hermione."

"I'll tell her you said that!" And she ran off before he could reply.

That was the first time he spoke to her that summer and, he realized later on, also the first time they'd had a real conversation.

Lunch was soon served, and the stew came out fine. For Harry, that wasn't the problem. The problem was the buttered vegetables.

On his end of the table, Harry gazed forlornly at the peas on his side plate. Mrs. Weasley had laid it on thick today—the mound of peas was as tall as the saltshaker. He never liked them, but it was impolite to leave them as they were. He had gone through about a fourth of the lot when Mrs. Weasley insisted he take another helping, and unceremoniously dumped another spoonful on his plate. Harry looked to Ron beside him for help, but as usual he was engrossed in a heated discussion with Hermione.

"I'm telling you," she was saying, "Professor Vector was correct! A five-ounce swallow simply cannot carry a one-pound coconut!"

Ron had a rebuttal for everything. "But it could've been an African swallow!"

Harry rolled his eyes, and glimpsed Ginny who was sitting to his left. She was slowly munching on a piece of broccoli with severely taxed look on her face.

He leaned closer to her and whispered, "Hey, you okay?"

She snapped out of her trance. "I'm fine."

"Just try and ignore them, okay? They can get really tiresome sometimes."

"Oh, I don't mind them," she sighed, "It's all this broccoli. Whenever Mum serves broccoli she makes us finish it. She used to trick me too—'It makes freckles fade away, Ginny dear.'"

Harry chuckled. "You believed her?"

Ginny put her fork down. "I was six, what do you expect? Urrgh, am I turning green?"

"Just about, and your eyes are watering. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"In a minute. Or five," She swallowed painfully, and eyed his plate. "You don't seem to be making a dent on those peas."

"That's because your mother keeps sending reinforcements. I never took much to them, but I can't refuse your mum that easily."

She giggled. "I never knew that. What's wrong with peas? They're fine."

"Huh. I should ask you what's wrong with broccoli."

"You should try it."

"Aunt Petunia serves it all the time. I have a pretty good resistance to it by now."

They stared at each other. A conspiracy had formed.

"Under the table."

"When they're not looking."

Both gazed around them. Everyone was engrossed in a big discussion; apparently Ron and Hermione were infectious. They quickly brought their side plates under the table, exchanged them, and brought them back up. They shared a secretive smile before starting on their food. Five minutes later, the offending meals were no more.

"Finished already, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley beamed at him. "My, you certainly seem hungry enough. Why don't you have some more…" Her hand reached for the serving spoon.

"OH NO, er I mean, no, thank you Mrs. Weasley. I'm _very_ full."

Beside him, Ginny hid her smile behind a small, freckled hand.

The days passed by in idyllic peace, and for a while Harry had forgotten all about his troubles. The one problem he had was how to refuse Ron and the twins should they ask him to play Quidditch. He needn't have worried though. For days on end black clouds hurtled across the sky and rain came down in sheets. Mrs. Weasley absolutely forbade them to play Quidditch.

"Don't tempt the lightning, for Merlin's sakes!" she said.

"Oh Mum, it doesn't matter what weather it is—we still have to play Quidditch at Hogwarts!" said Fred.

"Then play Qudditch at Hogwarts. While you're here, you do as you're told."

"Bloody English weather," Ron grumbled.

Despite Ron and the twins' wheedling, Harry complied with her wishes. So they spent their time playing Wizard Chess and other games, playing practical jokes, and finding ways to avoid studying with Hermione.

It hadn't always gone so well. Some nights, the memories came back.

Harry lay quietly in his bed, staring at the moonlight crawling across the posters on Ron's walls. He'd been trying to sleep for hours, but somehow his mind always circled back to the image of a coffin borne by four Hufflepuffs, and the cold, vacant stare in Cho Chang's eyes.

He wondered if Cho would ever give him that look, if she or the Hufflepuffs still blamed Harry for the loss of Cedric. Then again, whether or not they did hardly mattered. What mattered was Harry knew _he_was to blame. There was no escaping that.

He'd been putting off telling Ron and Hermione about his decision, partly because it was sure to ruin the summer for all of them. But there was another reason—he simply didn't know how to begin. The mere idea of saying, "I'm quitting Quidditch," caused a painful lump to swell in his throat. He threw a worried glance at Ron, sleeping but a few feet away. He hoped that when the time came to tell him, Ron would understand.

Outside a cock began crowing. One glance at the luminous clock on the desk told him it was five-thirty in the morning. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he might as well get up and do something. Maybe a cool bath would take his mind off of things.

Making sure not to wake Ron, he slipped out of bed, left the room, and walked down the dimly lit hallway. The bathroom was just around the corner. When he rounded it, he nearly ran into someone. One shrill squeal immediately told him who it was.

"Harry!" Ginny gasped. She was clad in her nightgown, a fact she quickly tried to hide behind her long bath towel. "What are you doing awake? It's not even dawn!"

Harry flushed and fumbled for an answer. What could he tell her? That he was thinking of quitting Quidditch and couldn't sleep?

"I…I guess I just felt like taking a bath early," he said. "I sometimes do that because the Muggles I live with don't like to see me using their bathroom." Then he peered at her curiously.

"I was going to take a bath myself," she explained.

"So early?"

"Oh…you don't know what it's like living with six brothers and two adults. It's always a race to use the bathroom first. I get ahead by waking up really early—no one else can seem to get up before six. I guess I kept the habit even after Bill, Charlie and Percy left."

They stared at each other for a minute, then Harry said, "Well, why don't you go ahead then."

"Oh no! Please, you first. You're our guest!"

"But you live here."

"So? I'll take forever in there. Go on."

"That's okay. You go."

"No, you go."

He grinned a little. "Not Hugo. Harry. And besides, ladies first?"

Ginny laughed. "Oh, fine. Why don't you get yourself something to drink in the kitchen while you're waiting? I'll be quick."

Ginny kept her promise. Fifteen minutes and a change of clothes later, they were sitting together at the dining table, having some tea. Talking with Ginny wasn't the same as having conversations with Ron, but at least it helped him forget what had happened earlier, even a little. He was thankful for that.

He told her, "Next time, though, I think I'll wake up a little earlier to take a bath."

She guffawed and said, "Sorry, but I don't think it's possible for boys to wake up earlier than girls." She sipped lightly from her cup, as if the matter were already settled.

Harry cocked his eyebrow at her. "That's what you think, is it?"

"Yes. I mean, look at my brothers. Look at Ron…well, I don't really need to say much beyond that."

"Okay, you've got a point. But I don't think all boys are that way."

She grinned, mischief dancing in her brown eyes. "Can you prove it?"

He grinned back. "Is that a challenge?"

She pushed her teacup aside and said, "It's really simple—all you have to do is wake up early enough to take a bath ahead of me. The one who makes the best of five days wins."

"Sounds tough. Is there a prize involved?"

"Huh, I don't know. What do you have in mind?"

"Loser gets to buy the winner one sweet of his or her choice at snack cart on the Hogwarts Express."

"Agreed. And by the way, I prefer the Strawberry Creampuffins."

They sealed the deal with a toast of their cups, and Harry went up to take his turn in the bathroom.

The next day, Harry woke up at five. Quietly slipping out of his bed, he picked his way to the bathroom, fully expecting to get there first. His hopes were dashed when he heard the water running inside, and Ginny humming to herself.

As he stood outside the door feeling like an idiot, he heard her say, "Why don't you make yourself some tea while you're waiting?"

"Yeah, fine," he said, then added, "I'll get here first tomorrow!"

"Sure you will." And she resumed humming.

Harry made good on his promise the very next day by waking up at four-thirty. He managed this by sleeping with Ron's alarm clock under the pillow. Hastily shutting it off, he groggily made his way to the bathroom. To his relief he got there first.

He wasn't so lucky the next day. Ginny got up fifteen minutes earlier than he did. Harry groaned and went downstairs again to wait.

When Ginny came down to the kitchen, she found him washing dishes at the sink.

"Looks like your mum left some dishes over for the night," he said. "I was just trying to lighten the load."

"That's not like Mum at all." She stared at the stack of unwashed plates. "Looks more like Fred and George came down for a midnight snack."

"A snack? Really? Looks like a full course meal to me."

"Tell me about it." She stepped forward to help. "You don't have to do this, Harry. How many times do I have to remind you you're our guest here?"

"Bosh. I've been living off of you for two weeks. I should at least do something productive."

She giggled. "If you really want to help, you can pay rent. Heaven knows we need it."

Harry found himself smiling. It was the first time he heard a Weasley make light of their being poor.

Ginny took the role of washing the dishes and Harry took to drying them. "I feel bad about you cleaning up after my brothers," she said. "I have a good mind to kick down their door and make them do the washing."

"I told you, don't worry about it," said Harry. "In any case, I think it's fun living with so many people."

She snorted. "Fun. Right. It's fun till _you_ become the object of amusement." She smiled and continued, "But they're all okay, my brothers. They may be big fat headaches, but they're never bores."

"You have any favorites?"

"That would be Bill, because he used to read to me a lot and give me piggy-back rides all the time when he was still living here." She brandished a fork at an unseen enemy. "I was Sir Ginny and he was my noble steed! Then we'd fight dragons and giants and rescue kindly grandmothers from evil tax-people.

"It was Ron, though, who took care of me when I started at Hogwarts. We don't talk as much as we used to now. And he can be such a prat, especially when it comes to Hermione."

Harry grinned widely. "You think so?"

"Oh yes. Sometimes I think he's taking after the thugs—I mean, twins." She turned to him. "Can I, uh, ask you a question?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, what's it like living with Muggles? Ron doesn't tell me much but I hear a lot from Hermione. They not really that horrid to you, are they?"

When Harry did not reply, she turned her eyes back to the plates. "Sorry. That was kind of personal, wasn't it."

"That's okay," he replied, "I was just thinking. There're all sorts of Muggles, same as wizards. I'm sure there are nice ones out there; I just wish I could get lucky enough to find some. In any case, the people I live with are…" He searched for a word, but found nothing to adequately describe his uncle, aunt and Dudley.

"Rotten as radishes?" Ginny supplied.

He grinned. "Yeah, that's about right. Not quite as bad as Snape, but they'd be in the neighborhood. I have to cook and clean for them and do their gardening and stuff. Otherwise I'm not allowed out. I'm also the butt of my cousin's jokes. His idea of funny is me covered in soot from cleaning out the chimney." He stopped and saw her staring at him, wide-eyed.

"I get by, Ginny," he reassured her.

She shook her head. "It's not that. I just find it amazing."

"What's amazing?"

"That sounds exactly like how I get treated here!"

They stared at each other for a minute. Then Harry found he couldn't help it—he started laughing. Out loud. And Ginny laughed right along with him.

When they recovered, she said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to be impertinent. It's horrible that they treat their own relative that way. It must really get you down. I wish I could do something about it, like report them to the Ministry or something!"

"Don't worry about it. It's sort of a relief that at least SOMEONE knows how it feels."

"How do you get through it?"

"I keep thinking of my friends and when I can finally get back to Hogwarts. How about you?"

"What do you expect? I fight back!" She brandished the fork again. "I make my brothers realize that he who crosses Ginny Weasley does so at his peril! And if they don't like the rules, they can cry me a river."

He grinned again and dried the last of the plates. "You know," he remarked, "I've never heard you talk so much before."

She lowered the fork, surprised. "Huh?"

"I mean, you were always so quiet. Your brother said you liked to talk, but I didn't know just how much. It's nice to know you're normal."

For a while she just stood there, her face slightly pink. Then she huffed and said, "Is that so? Well, it would be fair for me to say I find Harry Potter's a normal boy after all!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean I can have an actual conversation with him," she said with mock petulance. "Half the time he used to act like complete snob, talking to my brothers while pretending I wasn't there."

Harry stopped polishing his plate, feeling mortified. "Did I really?"

She sniffled. "Yes you did."

Harry looked contrite for all of five seconds before cracking a grin. "So cry me a river."

None of Harry's Quidditch reflexes could have saved him from what happened next. The next thing he knew, she had dumped a cupful of soap water down his shirt.

"Ginny!" he cried, pulling the wet cloth away from his body. "I'm soaking!"

She glared at him and started taking the plates to the cabinet. "So cry me a river."

After that, of course, Harry really had to take that bath.

The next day Harry got up even earlier, but he only beat Ginny by a margin of two minutes. With a tied score, neither could give ground. Much to Ron's surprise, that night Harry said that he'd be turning in at nine o'clock.

"What?" he demanded as Harry climbed into bed. "What the heck are you going to bed so early for? Is Wood haunting you?"

"Made a bet with Ginny," Harry said. "She said boys can't wake up earlier than girls. I intend to prove her wrong."

Ron blinked for several seconds, then said, "Well, she's right. Don't waste your time."

"Huh. Says you. I _can_ prove her wrong."

"Suit yourself, mate. It's your funeral."

How true those words rang when Harry woke up at three in the morning and felt like a corpse. Nevertheless, he pulled himself out of bed and somehow made it to the hall. There was Ginny, red-eyed, disheveled, and tottering. They made it to the bathroom door at the same time.

"You don't…look so good," he muttered.

"The pot…kettle…black," she replied.

"You okay, Ginny?"

"Ginny isn't here. Her spirit hasn't come back to her body yet."

Harry grinned and she sniggered. "So," she said, "who won?"

"Look," said Harry, "I don't even feel like taking a bath. So I say, let's not and say we did, okay? I'll buy you the Strawberry whatsits."

"Strawberry _Creampuffins. _And since this is an official draw, I'll buy you a sweet of your choice too."

"Fine. Chocolate Frogs. I'm going back to sleep."

"Agreed." And they promptly turned around and shlumped back to their rooms. As he fell back into bed, Harry thought that the best thing about the past five days was that he hadn't had a chance to get depressed.

They talked more often over the next few days. Ginny would join them in games and chores, give an occasional side-comment during a Wizard chess match, or help Harry arbiter a debate between her brother and Hermione. Harry found that her company gave yet another dimension to his life with the Weasleys, and he was glad for it. He'd never been bored or lonely in the Burrow, and now he was sure he never would be.

It was the day before the end of summer vacation when Harry abruptly tried to tell Ginny something important.

They were sitting together on the porch, gazing out onto the sunlit lawn. She had been knitting her scarf then, listening to the lilting voice of her book, and he found himself asking her, "Keep a secret, Ginny Weasley?"

She stopped working and gazed at him. Her eyes read the look on his face, and she shut the book beside her. "Yes I can, Harry Potter."

He watched her wordlessly for a minute. Why was he going to tell her? It had come so unexpectedly, that need to talk. But why _her_? Maybe because he was nervous as hell about tomorrow and he had to tell someone before he burst. Maybe because she was a third party, or because she didn't care about Quidditch.

Maybe because he knew she would keep her word and never tell another soul.

He took a deep breath and said, "There's something I have to tell Ron and Hermione. I've been putting it off for a long while, but I can't anymore. Tomorrow I have to tell them. Well, not just them—the twins, Professor McGonagall, a lot of people at school. And…it's not something anyone's going to like."

He looked at her worried expression and quickly said, "I'm not sick or dying, Ginny."

"Oh."

"What I have to say, well, it's a decision I've made. I've given it serious thought over the past few weeks. I finally figured out how I'm going to say it, so I'm planning on telling Ron and Hermione on the Hogwarts Express…"

They sat still for a while, gazing at one another.

After a while, she said, "You do realize haven't really told me anything yet, don't you?"

Harry gave a nervous laugh and brushed back his bangs. "Er, right. I guess…I guess I'm not quite—"

"Is it that bad?"

He picked at a piece of grass near his foot. "…Yeah."

She nodded and said, "You don't have to say anything, then, if you don't want to."

Harry thought for a minute, and decided he was more relieved than anything else. He didn't have to say anything. Why did he feel he had to, in the first place?

"…Yeah, okay. You'll find out tomorrow, anyway. I guess everyone will be talking about it, so when you hear it, try not to be shocked."

"Oh. I see."

He felt the need to lie down, so he got up to go inside. "I think I'll take a nap. Tomorrow then."

"Okay," she said, then called after him, "You'll be all right, Harry."

He turned and smiled sadly at her. "We'll find that out tomorrow too, won't we?"

As it turned out, things _had _gone bad the moment he told them.

Ron sat there in shock for a while. "You...you can't quit," he kept muttering. "You can't."

Hermione was saying, "But Harry, Quidditch is something you love to do. Please don't think quitting is going to help in any way..."

"You CAN'T quit!" Ron cried, bolting from his seat. "You're going to be the best Quidditch player there is and you're just going to turn your back on it all? You're going to throw it away? What's wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me, Ron," Harry replied, getting angry in spite of himself. "It's just something I have to do—"

"And you deliberately kept quiet until today, didn't you! You planned this all on your own! You had all summer and you didn't say a word _until the last minute, didn't you!_"

Harry raised his voice right back, and not five minutes later they were shouting loud enough to be heard five rooms away. Harry could not remember all of what was said, even hours after the haze of anger had settled—He supposed the mind shuts down under a lot of stress. But he remembered how all that shouting made him feel as if he were being pelted with pieces of glass.

Finally, the conductor came over and broke them up, saying they were disturbing the other passengers. He made Harry take a separate room further down the train. Without another glance at Ron, Harry marched into the hall. There was a small crowd gathered there, and when he came out they all averted their eyes. Except for Draco Malfoy. He stood to one side with Crabbe and Goyle, all smiles. _Why wouldn't they be happy? High times for them, right? Potty and Weasel had a falling out and they didn't have to lift a finger for it! What a joke, right! What a goddamn treat!_

Harry had used all his willpower not to slug that smirking face, and very nearly did anyway. But he saw Ginny standing there in the crowd. She hadn't looked away like the rest. Their gazes locked for a second; somehow she looked paler, smaller. There had been concern in her eyes—for her brother or for him, he could not tell. Harry opened his mouth to say something ("Well, what d'you think? Pretty bad wasn't it?"), but promptly shut it. Breathing hard, he stalked past them all towards the end of the train.

As he sat there alone in the compartment, he felt his anger fade, leaving only a vast regret. Their argument that had not shaken Harry as much as the look on Ron's face. He had looked utterly betrayed.

And Harry felt so tired, drained. Mercifully, after some time he found himself drifting off.

He woke when the whistle shrieked and the train came to shuddering halt. He rose wearily from the seat, head buzzing, a rotten taste in his mouth. He didn't feel one bit like moving from his spot, but he had no choice. Sighing, he brushed back his hair with one hand and slipped on his glasses. That was when he noticed something lying on the seat opposite his own. He reached over and picked it up. Then his lips formed a wan, regretful smile.

It was a small pack of Chocolate Frogs.

After that first hurdle with Ron, the rest of the work was comparatively easy. He did things with a single-mindedness that was almost ruthlessness. First, he spoke with the Quidditch captains, Fred and George. Neither had outbursts like Ron's; apparently they knew they owed him their life's work. They begged and pleaded and offered him all sorts of bribes, but Harry remained adamant. Next was Professor McGonagall. When he told her, the Headmistress of Gryffindor did not react. If she felt disappointment or anger, it did not cross her mind to show it. She merely gazed at him coldly through her spectacles and said, "Very well," then went back to her paperwork. Harry left her office feeling more depressed than he expected to be. Lastly, there was Professor Dumbledore, who alone took it well.

The rest of the school was surprised by the news of his decision, but it had been merely the first of a long line of surprises. Hogwarts had two new teachers. The first was Professor Cowl, who replaced Snape as Potions Master. Of course, rumors of Snape's whereabouts flew thick and fast.

"He's been sacked!"

"He's found a better job as new Headmaster of Durmstrang!"

"He's hiding from the Dark Lord and ran away to Finland with a jazz band!"

Many theorized he was working as an agent for the Order of the Phoenix, but there was neither proof of this nor of the Order's existence. Snape had vanished with no more explanation than the official one—he was on holiday in Siberia, for health reasons. To this Ron commented, "If there is anyone in the world who could get healthier living in Siberia, it would be Snape." Amen, said the Gryffindors.

Professor Julius Cowl was a tall, balding man in his mid-thirties, with large ears and spade feet. He was always immaculately dressed, but often kept pushing up his glasses and nervously tugging at his robes, as if these didn't fit him well. He'd also bring a dozen Potions books with him to class, packed in two bulging briefcases. When he lectured, he'd read straight from a book without ever looking up. He never asked questions. Exams were all written. He never made a real potion let alone touched any of the instruments on the table. In his own words, Potions were all about "exposition, exposition, exposition." This of course, was no problem with Hermione, but did absolutely nothing for Harry or the other students. It got bad for the Slytherins in particular, who practically lost a doting godfather. They called Professor Cowl the cruelest things behind his back and almost never turned in homework.

"They're just plain awful!" Hermione remarked one lunchtime. "Some of them openly sleep in class!"

"Well," said Harry, "it's not as if the Professor notices."

Defense against the Dark Arts class was quite the contrast. From the moment Professor Adrianna Summershield swept into the room, all eyes were on her. They stayed on her from the moment she said hello till she bid them goodbye. And when she left, the room went abuzz with talk.

"I don't believe it!" said Hermione. "She must be no older than twenty-five!"

"Let's hope she's more than her looks," said Harry.

As it turned out, she was a capable professor. Certainly not in the caliber of Lupin or Moody (the fake one, that is), but close enough. Her style was always the same—lecture in the first half, hands-on in the second. In this way they tackled stirges, will-o-wisps, frostlings, and lastly, imps. The only complaint Harry had was that she was rather slow in getting to the next topic. It was as if there was not much road to cover, and she was purposely taking her time.

No one else seemed to notice, though. In the days that followed, there appeared to be a gradual change in seating arrangement—boys occupied the front area more, and girls stayed at the back. Everyone found her pleasant and accommodating, even if she was a bit of a loner. Lavender and Parvati disliked her for some obscure reason. Well, thought Harry as he observed the class, maybe not so obscure.

Harry hadn't the chance to talk with Ginny again for a week—schoolwork and that business with Ron simply took him away. Then one Saturday, he spotted her sitting by herself at the Gryffindor table, idly writing in the same book he had picked up in the meadow. As he gazed at her, he was seized by a sudden thought—he hadn't bought her those sweets he'd promised.

He approached her and said, "Hello, Ms. Weasley."

She looked up at him in surprise, but only for a moment. "Mr. Potter!" she said with measured cheerfulness. "How nice to see you again."

"Ginny, you saw me just yesterday, at Gryffindor. We said hi."

"It's nice to see you _up close_, for once."

He chuckled. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry we hadn't had a chance to talk. Mind if I sat down?"

She said nothing, but looked down at her book and started writing again.

"Please, Ginny?" he said, sincere as can be. "I'm really sorry. Really."

Again, she said nothing.

"Look, I'll get you the Strawberry Creamwhatsits on the next Hogsmeade weekend."

She looked up again. "_Creampuffins._" But she smiled this time, and made space for him to sit beside her. They whittled away the afternoon in the Great Hall, talking as they had in the Burrow. Harry had a great time; Ginny never seemed to run out of stories.

"So I said "Wingardium Leviosa' and did the swish-and-flick thing with my wand, but the feather didn't float! So Professor Flitwick said, 'Try again,' and when I did…the feather shot off my table like a dart and struck him on the nose! Poor Professor Flitwick was so shocked he tumbled off the stack of books he was standing on."

Harry had laughed so hard he'd gone beet red. "And that was when the stack collapsed on him and you had to dig him out?"

"Stop laughing!" said Ginny. "It wasn't funny. I was lucky he was too nice to give detention to a First Year."

While talking with Ginny was fun, it wasn't the same as talking with Ron. However, they hadn't said a word to each other throughout the whole of September. If Harry had to know something important, he had to talk to Hermione. It was Fourth Year all over again, and this time things were even worse. It was physically impossible for him to study in the same room Ron was in, and even eating at the same table became a chore. He could not be sure how Ron felt about it all, but he was downright miserable: not speaking like this made him feel like he'd been holding his breath for far too long.

As such, life with Malfoy had become even worse; he got vicious at every opportunity.

"Awww, are the lovebirds still having a spat?"

"Why so glum, Potter? Don't have your Ronniekins to hold your hand, hmmm?"

"Kiss and make up! Kiss and make up! Kiss and MAKE-UP!"

The Slytherins would roar in laughter and join the chant. Harry would grit his teeth as he walked past. He couldn't say anything. Not if Ron wasn't fighting back either.

Hermione liked the situation between the two even less. She would spend her time finding ways to get them to talk to each other. She'd plead, cajole, threaten, stomp her foot, slap Ron upside the head—nothing worked. Ron remained adamant, Harry likewise. Finally, Hermione decided on the extreme: she tricked them into going inside a pitch-dark walk-in closet containing a boggart, and locked the door.

It had gotten nasty, but it worked. Despite opening old wounds all of the first hour, they were forced to work together to get out and in the process, made up. Of course, both of them ended up not talking to Hermione, but that didn't take her half as long to patch up.

The days went by in Hogwarts—life was slow and uneventful, for once. Perhaps it was the absence of Snape that did it. Perhaps because there hadn't been a single sign that Voldemort was back in the world. So for the most part, the students of Hogwarts went on with their lives as if the last year hadn't happened.

For Harry, there had been a thread of unease he couldn't ignore.

Since the school year began, his scar had been occasionally bothering him. Sometimes it would itch or burn for a little while, other times the pain would lance through his forehead before instantly vanishing. Harry thought of telling Dumbledore about it, but then again, he was not comfortable with the idea of running to his office with every minor ache he had. Besides which, there was really nothing much to tell. There was an itch, a sting, then nothing.

It was the middle of October when finally Harry got an idea of how bad things were eventually going to get.

One night he woke in agony, screaming and clutching at his scar. Every boy in the dormitory woke with a start. Ron stumbled out of bed, demanding to know what happened. Harry remained huddled where he was, trembling in pain and fear. It was as if someone had traced his scar with a white hot razor. It took several minutes for the pain to die away so he could finally think.

Voldemort had done something very hateful—perhaps even murderous. But try as he might, he could not recall enough of the nightmare to figure out what it was.

Part of the answer came the very next day.

Harry could clearly remember that moment. It was breakfast time and everyone had gathered in the Great Hall. Harry had just finished eating when an owl flew in and dropped the Daily Prophet in front of Seamus who sat beside him. Seamus read the headlines aloud.

"…_a 42-year old Muggle Michael Dunn and his three wizard sons Justin, Douglas and Sean, have been missing for the past 72 hours. The Dunn family was last seen in Balder's Hill, preparing for a weekend camping trip. Officials believe they had lost their way to the campsite…"_

Harry's skin prickled as Seamus skipped to the description beneath the picture.

"_Michael Dunn and his three sons. Rescue Wizards are combing the forests south of Balder's Hill. If you have seen any of them, please inform the Ministry of Magic…"_

Against his will, Harry turned and looked at the picture on the paper. His fears were confirmed—both the name and the kindly face of the missing man were those from his dream. He felt his blood turn to ice water as he watched the man's three handsome sons squeezing into the small frame, waving up at him. Voldemort had called this man by name, had personally done something to him and his sons.

He had heard it, the high voice of the Dark Lord—

"_Watch them carefully, Michael Dunn. Can you see the life ebbing from their eyes? I never tire of watching that."_

_And the man was crying, screaming through the bars of his cage. "No! Please let them go! I'll do anything you ask—just don't let them die, I beg you!"_

"_Their deaths will not be in vain, my friend. They shall die for you. So you will become stronger. So you will know what it is like to hate."_

He sat still, staring at Michael Dunn's kindly face. In his mind, it seemed to be twisting, turning feral, angry. It was something not human. Something very, very bad.

Beside him, Ron was commenting, "Is it me, or are more people getting lost in the woods nowadays?"

"If they're lost, I'm sure they can use the Point-Me Charm to find their way," Dean said.

"It's not much help if they don't know where they are," Hermione interjected. "It's the Rescue Wizards' job now."

"So, what're we doing for Potions later?" someone asked. "What? Not another quiz! What is it with Cowl?"

Ron said, "Don't get me started on Cowl! Did you know that Colin and Dennis have started a poll? 'Which Professor is more boring: Binns vs. Cowl!' I heard they were thinking of a title fight where both give lectures and we see which puts the most students to sleep."

"Oh, stop it," said Ginny. "Don't make fun of Professor Cowl. He gets enough of that from the Slytherins."

Dean—"Skeeter's writing again? Lemme see—"

Parvati—"I hear Summershield likes—"

Neville—"Could someone pass the pepper—?"

"Harry?" Seamus suddenly said. "Harry, are you all right?"

Harry's skin had lost all feeling. Everything sounded odd and distant. The faces looking at him had turned into bright blurs. His throat burned. It hurt to breathe.

"Harry?" Ron was looking at him, puzzled. Harry felt him touch his shoulder, and flinched as if stung.

"I need to get out," he said hoarsely. He stood and left his seat without another word.

When he got to the doors of the Great Hall, he broke into a run.

He ran as if it meant his life. Shouts came from behind, some running feet, but he did not stop or turn. He kept on going—out the Hall, down the steps, swerving through a crowd, past bewildered faces of students and teachers. Figures in paintings turned to watch. A suit of armor he passed saluted stiffly. Somebody shouted, "No running in the halls! No running—"

He hurtled through the main doorway and into bright sunshine. Before he knew it he was sprinting across the grass towards the lake. When he made it to the shore he started running along it, going clock-wise around the lake. Presently he found what his mind had been half-looking for—a lonely copse of trees on a grassy hillock he'd once seen on the road to Hogsmeade.

He ran behind the largest tree and collapsed on his hands and knees. He felt his stomach convulsing, then came the bitter taste of bile. His hand clamped onto his mouth. He didn't know how he held it down, but he did.

He crawled to the tree and sat down, leaning against it. His eyes strayed to the lake on his right. It was a moving mass of deep blue, glittering beneath an autumn sun. It looked beautiful, but it only invoked a sharp ache inside of him. Somewhere on this earth, a man and his three sons were never going to see anything like it ever again.

The lake vanished like a mirage before his eyes as a pain-filled moan filled his ears. It sounded like a dying animal, and at first he couldn't convince himself that it came from him. He screwed up his eyes and clamped his jaws shut, but all the same tears burned their way down his cheeks and sobs broke from the deepest part of his lungs. It seemed almost ludicrous—he was crying, for someone he'd never met. But some internal voice told him he had to mourn them, because no else could. No one else knew but him.

Perhaps he also mourned for himself, for that same reason.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, waiting for his grief to empty itself. When he looked up again, the shadow of the tree had shifted some feet away and the breeze was cooler on his face. He felt empty and exhausted, but he knew that things would only get worse the longer he stayed there.

Wiping his face, he got up to walk back to Hogwarts. But just as he rounded the tree, he stopped.

Ginny was sitting on the other side. She'd been so quiet he hadn't noticed her there at all.

She looked up and met his gaze. "Hi," she whispered. "Do you want to go back now?"

He stood there, wondering at her, until she repeated the question.

"I don't know," was all he could reply.

She lowered her head, and in small voice, said, "We could just stay here, if you like."

Classes, he almost said, but pushed the thought away. He couldn't, not looking like this.

"All right," he said.

She seemed grateful and shy at the same time, making space for him to sit beside her while keeping her eyes averted. Harry sat on the grass and crossed his legs.

He was afraid to ask, but couldn't help it. "How long have you been sitting here?"

"I got here a few moments after you did…I…I saw you running away, and everyone stood there staring. I couldn't…well, I didn't think. Ron and Hermione are looking for you too. I ran out here and…and I heard you. I'm sorry, I…"

He nodded. "Guess I catch people's attention no matter what I do, huh?"

"It's not like you did anything wrong! Sometimes…people need to get away…"

She fingered a blade of grass beside her for a moment, then drew a breath and said, "Harry, what happened? Can you tell me? I…I want to help if I can. I don't like seeing you like this."

"I don't like it anymore than you do. But no, I don't think you can help."

"But, but why? I don't understand."

He longed to tell her. He wanted to let her know that he sometimes knew these terrible things. He wanted to let her know how he felt so helpless and angry. How much he hated being Harry Potter.

And yet, he felt there was no way to describe its totality. He felt that if he tried, his faltering words would burn him as anew, that he'd break down again and cry like a child in front of her.

"Harry?" she persisted.

"I, I need…" He swallowed, tried not to shudder. "Time. I just need a little time."

She watched him, disappointed that he wouldn't say any more. She pulled her knees closer to her body. "I…I could go…" she whispered.

He felt something tighten in his chest. "Don't," he said. Then, more gently, "Don't."

They sat still for a time. He waited for her to ask again. He knew she wanted to ask why.

But she didn't anymore. Side by side, they continued to stare at the gentle waves on the lake, and at the sunlit wildflowers that nodded with the wind. After a while she looked at him, smiled, and picked up a dandelion near her shoe. She held it up. "Make a wish, Harry."

He returned her smile sadly. "Do they count for anything?"

"They do. They always do. Trust me."

So he closed his eyes—

_I wish that no one would ever suffer because of me_

—and blew on the dandelion in her hand. The little tuft burst into a cloud of spiraling wisps. Ginny picked up another dandelion and blew on it. Her cloud mingled with his, and they watched the dandelions rise into the air, borne gently by the wind.

It was a good half-hour before they spoke again. "Better now?" she asked.

"A little better, I guess."

"Let's go back then. Ron and Hermione must be having seizures by now."

As they stood up and dusted their robes, he caught her eye and said, "Ginny?"

"Hmm?"

"I just realized…I haven't even gotten you your Creampuffins yet."

Another one of her little smiles lit up her face. "That's all right. I only like watching them waddling around anyway. And Mum always told me not to play with my food."

It was strange to see her take his hand and look him in the eye, and not even blush.

"Will you tell me, someday?" she asked.

Her hand was small and soft and warm in his. It was an odd, sweet warmth that spread throughout his body, easing his grief. And something in him responded. He gave her hand a light squeeze.

"I will, Ginny. Someday."

Curiously, though both Harry and Ginny did get separate detentions for missing class, none of their friends mentioned the incident. The Gryffindors never asked Harry if he was all right, though he sometimes saw them watching him from the corner of his eye. It made him uncomfortable. Once again it crossed their minds that he was different from them, that he, as Rita Skeeter mentioned, was 'unstable.' But he could hardly blame them this time. Not with the way he'd behaved.

Ron and Hermione tried to ask him what had happened, but each time they tried Harry always managed to change the subject. It worried Hermione and frustrated Ron to no end, but to Harry's relief they eventually quit asking.

But Harry could not escape Dumbledore. The Headmaster called for him that very evening, although not to his office. They met at a deserted balcony, overlooking the expanse of the Forbidden Forest.

As they stood together, gazing at the moon as it rose over the forest, the Headmaster said to him, "I do not wish to add to your burden, Harry, by having you recount what you have seen. I am also sorry I have not given you time to recover. It is difficult, but…"

"…People's lives may depend on it—I understand, sir," Harry finished. He did not mean to be rude, but he felt very weary. He wanted this to be over. He did not look at Dumbledore. He did not want to see pity or sympathy in the old man's gaze. No one could ever understand how much he was suffering. He did not want to see anyone try and fail.

So he told the Headmaster what he saw as stoically as he could, though he still had to pause several times. Dumbledore did not interrupt or bother to ask questions. Half an hour later, he let Harry go.

As Harry lay in bed that night, he waited for another onslaught of nightmares. They came, but only as repetitions of what he had already seen. Just shadows plays in his head, destined to fade. No more agonizing visions came to him in the months that followed, and for this he was relieved.

His friendship with Ginny grew as the year went by, something he was very thankful for. They talked often, sitting together at Gryffindor Table long after classes were done. She would go with them on trips to Hogsmeade. She chose to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, and when Christmas Day came Harry found a gift from her sitting at the foot of his bed. He read the attached letter, and opened the gaily-decorated box.

It was the scarf she had been making all summer. Harry held it up and gazed at it in wonder. Golden griffins played on a red background, no two of them alike. At each end of the scarf, two large griffins stood upright, wide wings outstretched like sun rays. In their beaks each held a rose as if in offering. The edge of the scarf was trimmed by golden vines. The wool was soft and carried a ghostly scent of lilac.

Hardly believing his luck, he left the dormitory to find Ginny and say thank you. When he got to the balcony, he found her sitting in the Common Room with some very amused Gryffindors, staring at the table where she had placed Harry's gift for her.

On the table were dozens of red and pink Creampuffins, waddling here and there, looking over the table's edge and blinking up at the onlookers with their caramel eyes. Ginny watched them in delight. Then she seemed to sense him watching her and gazed up to where he was. A smile formed on her lips, as it did in her eyes.

It would've been perfect. It would've been one of the best friendships he'd ever had. Then one day in late January, while walking with her from the Library, he accidentally dropped his glasses on the floor, and she picked them up and put them back on his face. Then everything changed.

The main doors had long been locked, so Harry took a secret entrance located behind a bush, on the east wall of the school. With his Invisibility cloak on, there was no danger of being seen, but Harry was careful as he picked his way through the dark, sloping passage, one hand splayed on the wall to guide him along. Moody and Dumbledore spoke of a spy in Hogwarts. He hoped he was sleeping right now, whoever it was. He forced himself not to think about what would happen if he got caught through his own carelessness.

The tunnel exit was hidden behind a tapestry. Harry lifted it aside and stepped back into the halls of Hogwarts. It felt odd to be back here. He had walked through these halls countless times before during the day and night, yet the wide, moonlit halls looked alien to him now, its curtains and carpets only vaguely familiar. He didn't know if this had to do with his leaving Hogwarts, or because an unknown intruder was lurking somewhere in this school.

He looked from one end to the other, listening for footsteps. Not a sound could be heard. Nodding to himself, Harry slowly made his way up to Gryffindor Tower.

The walk seemed torturously long. Sweat pasted his hair to his neck, his jaws hurt from the strain of being clamped shut. But he made it to the portrait of the Fat Lady just the same.

She was fast asleep on her enormous chair, one cheek cushioned by a hand. Here, Harry had no choice but to show himself. After one last furtive glance around, he took off his Invisibility cloak and said, "Harry James Potter."

Instantly, he felt his skin crawl and swell as his own form returned. Tucking his folded cloak beneath one arm, he then looked up at the Fat Lady and coughed loudly. She snorted once, but remained asleep.

"Excuse me!" Harry said. When she did not respond, he rapped his fist on the portrait.

She nearly leaped out of the chair. "Good heavens!" she cried, and peered down at him in drowsy anger. "You? Didn't I let you in already?"

"Rumplestiltzkin," he said.

"Yes, yes," she said bemusedly. "But I could've sworn…"

Harry had neither the time nor the mood to be polite. "No you haven't. Do you mind?"

She huffed, but allowed the portrait door to swing open. Harry scrambled into the Gryffindor Common Room, careful to leave the door ajar.

As he had hoped, the room was empty. Despite his relief at this, Harry thought there was something sad about seeing only the moonlight occupy the cushy chairs, and only ash sitting in the normally cheery fireplace. He did not want this to be his last memory of his Common Room.

He snapped out his reverie as he heard the Fat Lady's gentle snoring from behind him. There was little time to spare. He hastily made his way up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. He was in the process of turning the door handle when he abruptly stopped.

What was he doing?

Was he really thinking of going in there, waking Ginny in the middle of the night to tell her some fantastic story about Harry Potter and his amazing double? Was she going to swallow all that? He could already imagine the look of disbelief on her face, followed by a disgusted glare. It sounded like a prank worthy of the twins. Maybe she wouldn't even let him talk—she could just as well throw him out the moment she laid eyes on him.

_Do I really have to talk to her?_ he wondered. _Maybe I don't. Maybe all I need is to see her face again._

He could settle for that. That had been the plan all along. He didn't have to wake her. He didn't have to tell her anything. He could just look at her face again as she slept. And, with that captured in his mind, maybe he too could sleep.

He added a little more pressure on the doorknob. It squeaked as if in protest, and from the other side, a voice said, "Who's there?"

Harry leaped back and nearly toppled down the stairs. At the sound of his steps, the voice called again, "Is someone there!"

Caught. Guilt and panic surged through his veins, and it took several seconds before it occurred to him that the voice was familiar, that it belonged to—

"Hermione?" He stepped forward, relief washing over him. "Hermione? You're awake?"

The door opened a crack and a pair of wide eyes peered fearfully at him in the gloom. There was a gasp and the door swung open completely.

"What—!"

"Quiet!" Harry hissed at her, stepping closer.

"Harry? But, but is it—I mean, it's really _you_, isn't it?" She reached out as if to touch his face.

"Yes, yes it's me, Hermione," he replied, grasping her hand. "Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was going to get a glass of water when I heard a noise and…Oh Harry! Wait here—I'll go wake Ron!"

"No, just a minute!" he said, stopping her. "You can't...I mean, I don't have much time."

"But I thought you left already! The carriage…"

Harry swallowed, looked her straight in the eye. "I decided to take some good advice before I go."

Hermione stared him, confused. Mustering his courage, he said, "Can I…can I go in and see Ginny?"

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then filled with comprehension, then just as suddenly, excitement. "Wait here," she said. She turned and ran down the corridor.

"Wh-where are you going?" Panicking, Harry made a grab for her hand but missed. "You're not going to—"

"Quiet!" she admonished, and vanished into the shadows.

Harry waited in the doorway, palms dampening anew, heart pounding much too loudly in his ears. Twice he started down the stairs, but something kept him going back. He had come too far. He had to see this through.

It did not take long for him to hear the soft sound of approaching footsteps. His heart leaped to his mouth as he heard that familiar, sleepy voice: "Hermione, d'you have any idea what time it is?"

"One minute, one minute," wheedled his friend. "It's just something you have to see."

They stepped into the slant of moonlight from a nearby window. Ginny was in her pale blue nightgown, rubbing her bleary eyes, her pillow-tousled hair lying free on her shoulders. Harry was struck by the sight of her; she had looked just like that once, back in the Burrow. The memory filled him with a sudden, sweet ache. Somehow that time no longer seemed so far away. He felt he could breach that barrier of two summers here and now, if he so wanted.

Hermione whispered, "Harry? Are you there?"

At the mention of his name, Ginny froze. The hand that had been rubbing her eye fell to her side.

"Yes," Harry said softly. He kept his eyes on Ginny as he stepped into the light. "I'm here."

For a moment, they merely regarded each other.

Then she broke the silence. "Harry," she said, frowning. "Isn't it a little late for us to be talking?"

Harry flinched. Everything he'd thought of saying fled from his brain. It took every inch of his will to remain standing where he was.

"You're right," he said after a moment. It sounded like the right thing to say. "I'm sorry I bothered you…"

He paused, eyes flicking to Hermione. Her eyes seemed to reassure him. _Go on._

"I came here because I wanted…because I thought we could talk for a bit."

"I don't know if we've anything to talk about," she replied.

"We do," Harry said quickly. "There's something I have to tell you. If you'd only listen—"

"If I say no?"

Hermione spoke up. "Harry's leaving, Ginny. Dumbledore's sent him on some kind of mission, and he came here to say goodbye."

Harry felt at once relieved and dismayed by his best friend's interruption. Helplessly he watched Ginny look at Hermione in surprise, then drag her eyes back to him. He swallowed again, stepped forward. "Can we talk, then? Alone? Please?"

She did not respond, did not even seem to know what to say. Her white hands clutched at the hem of her gown. He took another step towards her. "Ginny?" When was the last time he said that name out loud? And why did it feel wrong to say it?

She stood there quietly, eyes shifting to and fro, looking at anything but him. Finally she looked up and nodded once.

Harry felt that odd mix of relief and nervousness surge again in his veins. He nodded numbly to her as if in thanks, and turned to Hermione. "Go ahead," she said, "and hurry up! I'll just go make sure they're all asleep. Heaven knows," she added, in a low voice, "Ron's never going to forgive me if he found out you were here and I didn't even wake him."

Harry nodded again, turned and started down the stairs. He heard Ginny's light footsteps follow behind him, not too closely. He swallowed. His tongue tasted of sun-baked sand.

In a few moments he found himself in the Common Room once more. The moonlight from the window cut a pale box in the middle of the floor. Harry stepped into it gingerly and turned around. Ginny followed, watching him cautiously. Harry watched her red hair burn copper in the ashen light. They stood together, half-illuminated, half-hidden in the gloom.

"Is it true?" she asked. "You're going away?"

"Yes," he said. "The journey's supposed to be a secret. I'm supposed to leave tonight. In an hour, in fact."

"How long will you be away?"

"I think only two weeks."

She averted her eyes. "Is it…is it someplace dangerous?"

"I don't think so. Dumbledore's made sure I'll be safe."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She simply nodded, not knowing what more to say. He went on, "Ron and Hermione were the only ones who knew. After a while, I thought…I thought it would only be fair if I came here and said goodbye to you."

"At the last minute?" she asked, looking up at him.

He felt shame burning in his cheeks. He'd never considered she'd see it that way.

"I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do," he said. "Dumbledore wanted me to keep it secret."

"So why didn't you?"

He looked at her in disbelief. "What?"

"Why didn't you keep it a secret? Why didn't you just go?"

He suddenly—surprisingly—found himself defensive. "You wanted me to keep it secret? You didn't want me to tell you? Is that it?"

"What if it is?"

"Oh, that's nice—I guess I wasted my time by coming here!"

Her eyes flashed. "I guess you did! Considering how you've behaved over the past few months this _would_ be a waste of time for you!"

He bit down on harsher words. "I may be late but at least I didn't leave. At least I'm _here_."

She stepped forward, fists clenched. "And I want to know _why_ you're here, Harry! After all this time! For half a year you made me feel like I'd fallen off the face of the earth, and now you're suddenly here talking to me! Why do you want to tell me all this? Don't you think I should know that?"

He said the only thing that came to his head.

"Because…because I thought you deserved to know!"

An odd expression crossed her face, and she turned her gaze away. When she spoke again, it was in a strangled voice.

"You're not going to tell me anything more, are you."

He suddenly felt dirty, like he had played a trick on her. He wanted tell her something, to apologize, but she spoke first.

"Why are you going away?" she said, her voice still unsteady. "Are you allowed to talk about it?"

"…No. Dumbledore made me promise. I can't even tell Ron and Hermione."

"But you'll be back after two weeks."

"Yes," he said, then added, "I promise."

She looked at him. "You promised things before, you know."

"Yeah," he said, with sincere regret, "I know. I…"

She shook her head, saying, "Don't say it, if you don't mean it."

He gazed at her steadily. Then he said, "I'm sorry, Ginny."

Her mouth was silent but her eyes were not. Were there tears in them, or was it just the moonlight? He didn't know. He only knew that he had to keep talking.

He said, "Ginny, there's something else."

And he told her all about the homunculus. It took all of ten minutes, and as he spoke, Ginny's eyes kept widening in shock. When he was done, she sucked in her breath and let out a long sigh.

"This is a bit much," she said, shakily.

"Tell me about it," he replied. "When Dumbledore told me what had to be done, I nearly fell off my chair."

She turned her head to look out the window. "I didn't think it would be this bad," she said. "I didn't think that things would change so much or so fast, that we'd have to worry about such things. All we had before were grades and friends and who's going out with whom…" She turned, walked to a chair, and sank down. Her eyes were large and shiny with fear. "What's happening, Harry? I don't understand. It…it didn't used to be like this."

Harry sat down on an adjacent chair. "I know, Ginny. I think there's going to be a war. Dumbledore thinks so too. Things will be harder for us from now on."

She shook her head as if to deny it, as if she could make it go away.

"But if I succeed," Harry went on, "if I make this journey worth it, maybe this nightmare won't last."

He half-regretted those words; he was already bending his promise. She turned to look into his eyes. "You're going to face Him again, aren't you?"

He could not reply, realizing that part of the reason he could keep going was that he had tried very hard not to think of the moment he'd have to fight Voldemort once more. This journey was a trifle compared to that.

But if he was going to die, he might as well come clean, and say the things he wanted to say. Or at least…say the ones that wouldn't do any damage.

He looked down at the carpeted floor. "Ginny?"

"Yes?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry about…" He fought for words. His mind trembled at the edge of memory, but he pushed the distracting thoughts away.

"I'm sorry about that time in February."

From the corner of his eye he saw her look down as well.

"Okay." Her voice was low, quiet.

"I was angry and stupid," he went on. "I wasn't myself. I didn't mean those things I said."

She nodded, still not looking at him. He turned his head to watch her in the dim light. Her cheeks had reddened, but she was shivering as if cold.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked.

"Yes, Harry. It's okay."

Again he wanted to touch her, to make her stop feeling cold or sad or unsure. He reached for her hand, for the soft warmth he remembered from that time by the lake. If he held her hand, maybe that day would come back. Maybe everything would be all right.

She spoke abruptly. "You'd better go. It's dangerous for you to stay here any longer." She stood up.

His hand dropped to his side once more. Something sank inside of him.

He slowly got to his feet and stood beside her. Without a word he allowed her to lead him to the portrait door. There, she faced him once more.

"I don't know what's going to happen, and I barely know what's going on. But I do know we'll all be waiting for you to come back. Ron, Hermione, and me."

"Thank you."

"Thank you, too. For stopping by."

"…Yeah. Okay."

She smiled a little and said, with measured cheerfulness, "Well, take care, Mr. Potter."

He returned her smile as best he could. "I will. You too, Ms. Weasley."

He pushed the portrait door open and slipped outside. It shut softly behind him.

He stood there for long moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Coming here had been a relief, yes, but he also felt the cold comfort of their goodbye squarely in his guts.

I shouldn't be feeling this way, he told himself, as he put on his cloak. He found himself fumbling with the clasp; his fingers were turning numb from his dried sweat and the cold air. _I shouldn't be feeling like this. I did what I came here to do._

The feeling would not leave, promising sleepless nights ahead. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak tightly around his shoulders, vanishing from sight.

"I did what I came here to do," the air whispered hoarsely.

Then there was only silence.

Ginny remained where she was, watching the square of light lying on the Common Room floor. Was it just moments before that Harry was standing there? It seemed surreal. It seemed like it happened years ago, or that it happened with someone else and she was merely watching from across the room.

She kept on staring, picturing him there and straining to remember his voice, and how the moonlight glimmered in his green eyes. She tried to call back his words—and it hurt to do so. She had not felt it hurt in so long. And she had thought he'd never be able to hurt her again

Hermione stepped into the box, breaking moonlight and silence. "Is he gone? I, I wanted to say goodbye too."

Ginny looked into her friend's eyes, at the sorrow mirrored there.

"Yes, he's gone."

To her surprise, the last word came in a sob. Her hands flew to her mouth—she could hardly believe she was crying, but she was. Tears were running freely down her cheeks and onto her fingers. Her vision was blurring, her breath hitching in her lungs.

Hermione quickly closed the distance between them and put her arms around her. Ginny sank gratefully into her embrace, burying her face in her friend's shoulder.

"It's okay, Ginny," whispered Hermione. "It's going to be okay. He'll be back, I know he will."

Ginny was not listening. She could only hear her sobs, and the wild thudding of her heart, brimming with confusion and longing and fear.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

_Albus Dumbledore created the Order of the Phoenix for the sole purpose of defending the United Kingdom from the armies of the Dark Lord. At first a civilian movement that had its roots in the Druidic scholars, it later evolved into a militia as the prospect of armed struggle became inevitable._

— _From the Journals of Remus Lupin_

_There were only forty of us in the beginning, and this was counting fresh recruits. But in the space of one year, our ranks swelled to many times this number as groups from all over Britain responded to Dumbledore's call. At the height of the Order's power, we had a combined strength of 800 men._

— _From the Journals of Sirius Black_

Several miles north of London, there lay a mountain which for many years had remained nameless, unscaled, unmapped. There was nothing physically remarkable about that mountain—it was as tall as its neighbors and was covered by an equally dense forest. Yet every Muggle cartographer or hiker who had ever attempted to climb it suddenly realized he had left the faucet running in his kitchen, or had left his car parked in front of a fire hydrant. There were, of course, those headstrong individuals who persisted in climbing anyway. They did not get very far before being struck by near-crippling diarrhea, forcing them back to civilization for the nearest drug store and loo.

The mountain slope was steep in places and near horizontal in others. Near the summit, where the slope flattened out before rising sharply again, there stood a quiet grove of ancient oak trees, branches twined like linked arms. At the center of this grove, concealed from prying eyes, was a round patch of solid gray rock.

This grove was the one area on the mountain where a wizard could Apparate without fail, a fact known to only a few. Those privileged to be"in the know" could travel here without fear of getting splinched—that is, to get caught midway between places. And if they stood upon the stone and said the correct password, it would gently sink into the ground, carrying its passengers into a hidden compound within the mountain. This place was simply called "The Summit," formerly a secret library for ancient Druids, now the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

Down a narrow corridor from the entrance, one would find a series of rooms, their stone walls and floors yellowed with age. Despite being located within a mountain, these rooms were airy and well-lit by sunlight reflected from precisely angled mirrors hung from ceiling corners. Pots of exotic plants, colorful rugs and many relics from an older time also decorated every chamber.

To the left and right of the compound lay two large rooms lined with many feather beds and personal cabinets. At the opposite end from the entrance was an even larger room, filled with mats and human-shaped wooden dummies. Many of these dummies had scorch marks on them; not a few were missing limbs.

At the center of this network of rooms lay a large circular chamber. Stout marble pillars supported its domed ceiling while thousands of books lined its walls. The windows magically showed the land surrounding the mountain from eight separate directions. Sunlight entered through an opening at the top, lighting the wide circular table at the chamber's center.

This room had one occupant at the moment: a lean man whose sandy-brown hair was streaked with iron gray, and whose faded green robes had been mended many times. His thin face frowned in concentration, but he hummed as he directed a large banner with his wand.

"Two inches to the left," he muttered. "Hmm, perhaps three."

Moments later he lowered his wand and stepped back to survey his handiwork. The banner lay perfectly suspended against the wall. The words, in black ink and in his own magnified handwriting, read:

"_Men are your castles_

_Men are your walls_

_Sympathy is your ally_

_Enmity your foe"_

The young man nodded, smiling wearily, and put his wand away. He had just sunk into the nearest chair when a voice boomed from the hall. "Remus! Remus, where the blazes are you?"

"In here," he called.

The double doors were shoved open as another man, this one with long dark hair and gaunt features, strode into the chamber.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he demanded. "The full moon was just last night! You know you haven't fully recovered!"

"I'm fine, Sirius," Remus replied. "I didn't feel comfortable lying around all day, so I decided get some work done before the meeting this afternoon. Have a look." He motioned to the banner. "What do you think? Fits the Order, doesn't it?"

Sirius ignored the banner completely. "You think you're fine? I was in better shape after swimming the North Sea. What's wrong with you, working in that condition—"

"Padfoot, I was hanging a banner, not laying bricks."

"—and if you think for one moment you'll be joining the meeting in the state you're in—"

"I said I feel fine," Remus replied. "If there's anyone here who needs a break, it's you. You're run ragged. But most likely not as badly as the men you've been training."

This time, Sirius collapsed into a chair. "They're not ready," he groaned. "I'm way behind schedule. Damn it, we only got as far as Full Body-Bind Curses today! We're supposed to be at Wand Shielding!"

"That's because you only got this batch of recruits last week—of course you'll be behind. Besides which, you're tiring them out and putting even more pressure on yourself. It's not conducive to learning. Now, won't you relax?"

Sirius laughed harshly. "How in the world am I supposed to relax when Voldemort's got an army bigger than ours? This isn't going to be some schoolground scuffle, Moony."

"Well, Dumbledore once said there's more to an army than sheer numbers."

"Yes, yes, there's having money, weapons and well-trained troops. If we're settling for one out of three, that means Wand Shielding!" Sirius took out his wand and conjured a goblet of water, which he quickly downed. "If only Mad-Eye were here," he said, putting down the empty goblet. "He'd be able to train them twice as fast."

Remus smiled, a little guiltily. Sirius had a definite liking for the old man, because Moody was one of those who'd known all along, despite the evidence, that Sirius was not guilty of any crime. Mad-Eye simply knew guilt when he saw it.

"If he were here," Remus said, "he'd commend you for doing a great job training these men. You're as good as everyone else, perhaps better. And he knows it."

Sirius snorted as he put down his goblet. "'A convict would be more of a hindrance to the Order than a help.'"

"You weren't. Never mind what Galino said. You'd be foolish to keep thinking that way. Moody had said it was your own character that made the recruits stop feeling afraid of you. Now, not one of them believes you're a criminal. Unless of course," he added with a smile, "you actually kill one of them out of exhaustion. Take your mind off of work for now and do something else." Then he had an idea. "Have you written to Harry recently?"

Sirius's expression softened at the thought. "I haven't. It's been, what, a month?"

"Don't you think it's time he heard from his errant godfather?"

Sirius snorted again, but the faraway look never left his eyes. Remus wanted to laugh. That certainly did the trick.

"Take my advice," he added, "write him. And you can rest while you're at it."

"Oh, fine." Sirius Summoned a quill, an ink bottle and parchment from a nearby cupboard.

"I meant in the comfort of your own room, Padfoot."

Sirius spread the parchment and readied his quill. "No time. I'd better get this done now if I want to continue lessons by sundown."

Remus sighed. "Do you consider exasperating me part of your job?"

"No, but it's in my resume under 'Skills.'"

Laughter came from the entrance, followed by a slight ringing sound. Both men turned to see a golden-haired young man approaching them in slow, measured strides. In his right hand he held out his wand, a rod made of fine, durable crystal. In his left hand he carried some rolls of parchment.

"Lyle!" said Remus. "Help me convince this idiot to get some rest."

"Get yourself to bed, Mr. Black—that's an order," Lyle said, still smiling.

They had known Lyle since Hogwarts; he had been their upperclassman in Gryffindor, although they had rarely ever spoken to him. After graduating, Lyle had worked for the Ministry as an Auror. They met again when Lyle accepted Dumbledore's invitation to join the Order .

Sirius cracked a smile as he scribbled _Dear Harry—._ "You sound less like my officer and more like my mother. What's all that paperwork for?"

Lyle pocketed his wand, set the parchments onto the table and wiped his brow. "My reports on the Order's status. Dumbledore asked me to get an update on our overall condition. 'Know thy enemy, know thyself,' that sort of thing. And I trust you are both well? Remus, should you really be out of bed?"

"Why does everyone think I'm going to fall apart today?" wondered Remus. "I'm quite fine and capable of working, thank you. The proof is on the wall to your left."

Lyle lightly tapped his chest and murmured, "Aria?"

From his vest pocket emerged a three-inch tall elfin girl, who zipped into the air on a pair of golden dragonfly wings. Her sanguine eyes gazed at Remus's banner for a moment, then flew to Lyle's ear and whispered to him.

"Not bad," he said. "Now would you mind terribly if we move that aside when I make my report? I'll be projecting it on that particular wall."

"Your admiration of my work humbles me, sir."

"Anything for the Great Lupin." Lyle gave him a mock bow.

Remus leaned over and glared at Sirius, who was chuckling. "_You're _supposed to be writing your letter."

"I would be if both of you'd let me get past 'Dear Harry.'"

"You're both an hour early for the meeting, you know," Lyle said as he arranged his material. "Perhaps you _should_ rest a bit." The little sprite leaped onto table and helped roll out the parchments.

"Don't waste your time, Lyle," replied Remus. "You might as well ask Sirius to roll over and play dead."

Sirius shrugged. "The way things are I don't see how anyone can take it easy. Least of all Dumbledore. He's been here since before dawn, overseeing things non-stop. I shouldn't do any less, as I see it." He stopped writing and looked up, suddenly excited. "Lyle! What happened with your negotiations with the centaurs? Have they said yes or no or what?"

"Definitely 'or what'. It's been the same story for the past two months-they just consult their constellation charts, shake their heads and mutter among themselves. I could have done with a few mind-reading spells." He paused, then continued, "They did say they will be giving their decision in the meeting later. A delegation is supposed to arrive."

Sirius shook his head and started writing again. "You'd think centaurs would've learned to trust someone from the Order by now, especially an Auror."

Lyle's hands briefly stopped straightening his parchments. "Ex-Auror, Sirius," he said quietly.

Sirius looked up, abashed. "I'm sorry, Lyle...I didn't mean to—"

But the other man waved him off, smiling. "Any new developments on your end? Some last minute something I can add to my report?"

Sirius paused for a minute, watching him, but his serene face betrayed nothing. "No," he finally said. "We're not even into Wand Shielding yet, I'm afraid."

Remus said, "It's the stress, I tell you. Take the night off. Let me train the recruits."

"Forget it," the Sirius retorted. "As with our previous discussion, I'm in more shape to do it than you are."

"No doubt, and you'll be in no shape for anything at all by tomorrow."

"Seeing neither of you are up to the task," Lyle interrupted, chuckling, "I hereby order you both to take a leave for the night. Let me take care of the trainees."

"I can't ask you to do that!" said Sirius.

"You aren't; I'm offering. Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. Let me train the recruits tonight. Tomorrow, one of you takes my place at the Security Review. There, what do you think?"

Remus said, "But won't they be needing you there?"

"Nonsense. All procedure, I assure you. No wonder Mad-Eye was bored out of his mind."

"Why do I get the feeling you don't particularly like your promotion?"

"Because I didn't start out in the Order wanting a desk job. So, what do you think, Sirius?"

Sirius seemed about to decline, but then he looked thoughtfully at his letter. "Well...I suppose…if you say you can do it…"

Remus stared at him. "And the Minotaur is tamed," he said.

"Excellent," said Lyle, smiling. He felt around for a chair, and eased himself into it. "I wonder, Remus," he said, "where _did _you get the quote for the banner? It sounded familiar."

"I'm not sure," Remus replied. "It's something I remember from Muggle Studies back at Hogwarts. I only recall the words, though, not who said them—"

"Takeda Shingen," someone intoned from the doorway. "A Muggle warlord from Japan's Warring States Period."

Sirius and Remus turned as Melvincent Galino entered the chamber. A dignified 40-year old man with graying hair and face too old for his age, Galino was once a member of the elite Hit Wizards from the Law Enforcement branch of the Ministry. He left his job shortly after Voldemort's first reign, and later became one of the Order's senior members.

"Hello, Melvincent," Lyle said, facing him. "Bit early, aren't we?" Remus nodded his greeting. Sirius, however, merely winced and slid the unfinished letter into his pocket.

"I've just finished reviewing the regular troops today," replied Galino, as if he were already making a report. "I decided to head here directly after a brief repast." He turned his attention back to the banner. "It's quite apt," he went on, "but I'm afraid he's misquoted."

"Oh?" said Remus.

"Yes. I believe it should be, 'Sympathy _for _your allies, enmity _for_ your foe.'"

"I think it's fine as it is," Sirius said drily.

Galino ignored him. "Is Dumbledore about?" he asked Lyle. "I wish to speak with him awhile before the meeting begins."

"I don't know where he is now, sorry," responded Lyle.

"I do," Sirius said. "I saw him heading outside, possibly to check on the mountain's outer Security Charms. Why don't go look for him there?"

Galino turned to stare at him. "In that case, I'd rather wait for him here, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Sirius muttered.

"Er, why don't you take a seat, Melvincent?" Lyle said, gesturing to the table. "We've a bit of a wait before the meeting begins."

Galino moved towards the table but did not sit down."Tell me, how goes the training of our new recruits, Mr. Black?"

"Not bad, _Mr_. Galino," Sirius replied. "We're to continue with Wand Shielding tonight."

"Good. Very good. I'd like to stop by and check their progress, perhaps give some pointers."

Remus saw the muscles in Sirius's face clenching. _Control yourself_, he mouthed to him. Lyle coughed and said, "I believe Sirius will be taking—"

"—Care of the recruits tonight, not to worry," Sirius said. "No need to bother checking in."

"If you say so," said Galino, and moved to sit at the other side of the table.

Remus decided to fill in the silence that followed. "So, Lyle," he said, "who else is coming to the meeting?"

"You haven't heard since you've been out awhile," Lyle replied as he finished his preparations, "but it's going to be a big one. Everybody's coming."

"What do you mean everybody?" Remus asked.

"_Everybody_."

Two o'clock came and the chamber began to fill with people, most of whom were familiar to both Sirius and Remus. Dumbledore had referred to them before as "the old crowd."

Seated across from them was Arabella Figg. An elderly, benign-looking woman, Arabella was one of the sharpest minds in the Order. Dumbledore had relied on her in the past to gather intelligence on the Dark Order's movements. She had patented the strategy of using trained Kneazles, highly intelligent cat-like creatures, to infiltrate Death Eater territory using spying devices disguised as collars. Many strategies began and ended with the information she provided. She had retired years ago, but it was common knowledge that she had been watching over Harry as he stayed in Privet Drive.

At the moment she was telling Molly and Arthur Weasley stories about little Harry. The Weasleys were some of the Order's newest supporters, which was a twist of good fortune. Arthur was Dumbledore's man in the Ministry of Magic and they relied on him for news from that front. They chatted and laughed with Arabella, as if they were attending a social event rather than a meeting.

Actually, Remus reflected, it did seem like a social event. Most of the people milling about were old friends, and Dumbledore had arranged for a variety of snacks and exotic tea for everyone present.

To their left, Mundungus Fletcher was already helping himself to the food. A thin, raspy old man with long grey whiskers and sideburns, Mundungus was a brilliant inventor and an expert on magical research, facts which hopefully balanced the fact that he was the most socially inept person Remus had ever met.

"I heard he came only because there were refreshments involved," he muttered to Sirius.

"You know Mundungus," replied Sirius, "why stop at refreshments? A minute ago he was asking me where the buffet table was." He glanced to his right and said, "Tell me something. Who's that woman over there? The one with the monstrous hat beside her?"

Remus gazed at the formidable-looking lady who was helping herself to a crumpet, and said, "That's Mrs. Longbottom. She's the grandmother of one of my former students in Hogwarts." His voiced dropped lower as he said, "I heard that she once took on ten of Grindelwald's wizards by herself and won."

Sirius gave a low whistle. "Let's hope she knows I'm with the good guys."

There were also some unfamiliar faces in the chamber. Sirius was surprised to find not one but two representatives from the centaurs, a male and a female. They were drinking goblets of sweet wine while listening to Lyle, who was telling them about the Order.

Not far from the centaurs sat Marius Haggerty. A plump, noble-looking man with a monocled right eye, Haggerty was one of the few in the Order who had actually taken active part in two wars—first against Grindelwald, and later against Voldemort. Sirius had often heard him say he had no stomach at his age to be part of a third one. He joined the Order willingly though, and apart from Dumbledore proved to be its finest strategist.

Beside Haggerty, Galino was talking in hushed tones with Amos Diggory. Sirius had long noted that Amos had been keeping company with Galino since he joined the Order. He didn't like it one bit.

"I never thought Diggory would end up chums with a war-monger like Galino," he grumbled to Remus.

Privately, Remus didn't like it either. But to lighten Sirius's mood he said, "You know what? I don't think you're ever happy anywhere unless there's one person you can truly dislike."

"What in the world are you talking about?" Sirius asked, frowning.

"Think about it. At Hogwarts it was Severus Snape. After you graduated and found a job, it was that Hollyhock fellow. Now that you're in the Order, it's Galino. Don't you think it's true?"

"Do you get paid by the hour, Moony?"

Suddenly, a chorus of greetings erupted from the crowd. Dumbledore had finally arrived.

He made his way to the area in front of Remus's banner, occasionally stopping to shake hands. He wore deep blue robes with glittering stars and a wizard hat that leaned so far back it looked more like a night cap. While his face bore faint signs of fatigue, his voice did not.

After giving his welcoming remarks, he said, "While I would like to begin the meeting with a song to put us in a cheery mood, I believe we have pressing business to attend to. First, an important announcement that simply cannot wait. May I introduce the representatives of the Centaur Communes, herald Firenze, and his wife, tribe shaman Moonglow. Please come forward, friends."

The centaurs approached Dumbledore amidst applause from the Order. They shook hands with the Headmaster, then Firenze turned to address the entire room.

"Fellows, we come to you with goodwill and peace in our hearts. We have traveled here from the forests of Hogwarts, where our Council of Elders had recently concluded a general assembly of tribes. I am proud to bear happy news from this convention."

Sirius and Remus glanced at each other. Sirius's eyes shone with excitement. Firenze good news could only be one thing.

"By popular vote, the leaders of the Centaur Communes of Britain have agreed to ally with the Order of the Phoenix in their struggle against the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named..."

Firenze tried to say more, but the hurricane of applause drowned out the rest of his announcement. Everyone in the room was shouting and clapping and stamping their feet. Several wizards stood up to shake hands with the centaurs. Firenze and Moonglow seemed unused to this riotous show of camaraderie, but they smiled all the same as they shook hands.

Sirius had leaped to his feet, hands in the air. To Remus, he seemed in terrible danger of dancing for joy.

"What does it look like, Moony?" Sirius exclaimed, "How many trained fighters have we added to our side? All the Centaur Communes! And they're what, six hundred strong?"

"Don't include the women and children, Padfoot," laughed Remus.

"Fine, fine, let's say around two-hundred fifty. Enough to give the Dark Lord a run for his money, no doubt!"

Remus turned to Lyle, who literally had his hands full as the crowd gathered to congratulate him.

"Lyle, you did it!" Remus said, grasping his hand. "And here you were saying you couldn't handle a desk job!"

Lyle's smile was strained. "Thanks," he said. "I'm sure it wasn't just me that convinced them, though."

"Shut it, you," laughed Sirius, slapping his back. "You'll be having drinks with us later. _That's _an order."

Dumbledore, meanwhile, was attempting to get order back to his Order.

"Settle down, everyone, settle down. Firenze, Moonglow, the rest have said this far more eloquently than I, but please accept the gratitude and goodwill of the Order of the Phoenix. The centaurs are worthy allies and steadfast friends; we shall not soon forget it. Now," he said, turning to the rest, "please make yourselves comfortable. We have several other things we need to discuss before the day is done."

He waited for everyone to take their seats before moving on.

"The first half our meeting will consist of reports on the general condition of the Order and other matters of import. This is so everyone is on level ground with our situation. All of you may ask questions of those presenting their reports, but I must ask you to leave your opinions and suggestions for the second half of the meeting. There we shall discuss concerns that have arisen over the past year, and decide what actions to undertake.

"May I now request Lyle Bishop to give his overview on the Order's status. Meanwhile, Molly, will you take down the minutes of the meeting? Thank you."

Lyle snapped alert as a round of applause went up. He leaned over to Remus. "You won't mind if I use your banner for a bit, will you? "

"Not at all. Good luck."

He stood up and gathered his materials. His right hand took out his crystal wand and held it at waist level. On the index and middle fingers of his left hand he wore two hollow rings of tempered steel. When he brushed these fingers rapidly together, the rings produced a faint ringing sound which bounced throughout the room. The crystal wand caught the returning vibrations and magically provided him a mental sketch of his surroundings.

Lyle then walked unerringly to the front of the room, and Dumbledore made way for him. Lyle set down his parchments and little Aria flew out again and started arranging them. Meanwhile, Lyle pointed his wand at Remus's banner and muttered a few words. It quickly Transfigured, unfurling into a large screen with the quote shrunk down to a small header at the top. Another wave of his wand and a parchment stood stiffly upright, flashing a brilliant light on the screen. Remus's banner lit up with the contents of Lyle's report.

Lyle's report alone lasted for nearly an hour, and by the end of it Mundungus was snoring loudly in his seat. When Sirius turned his bleary eyes up to the banner, it was filled with the complete summary:

_Order's numerical strength : 440 + 230 (Centaur Communes)_

_Part-time support personnel :100_

_Death Eater numerical strength : 580 ? (as of May this year)_

_Funding for the Order :23,000 Galleons, approx. 500 a month_

Lyle added, "Even with our number, the area we have to cover to maintain a solid defense is still overwhelming. Fortunately we have devised a means of rapid transportation. Bernard Frost and his team have created well over 300 Portkeys over the past two months, all connected to our forward base in Birmingham. Once we receive news of a Death Eater attack, we shall move forces from Birmingham to the nearest Portkey exit. It sounds primitive, but unlike Floo travel there's no way the Ministry can track this system. The Portkeys are ready. All that remains is to decide where to install them."

The members nodded amongst themselves as Lyle returned to his seat and Galino took his turn. His report comprised of the training of the Order's recruits, as well as reviews of their responses to recent Death Eater activity. His report was far shorter than Lyle's, but at the conclusion he added:

"While we have been expeditious in our responses to Voldemort's forays, our methods are far too reactionary. Wherever there is Death Eater movement, such as Muggle kidnappings, our practice is to send our people in to secure the area. Yet the perpetrators slink back into the shadows, only to reappear elsewhere to do more damage. Our attempts to track them down have not produced great results."

"Where in hell does he get off saying these things?" Sirius fumed to Remus. "We're supposed to be saving our opinions for later!"

Galino went on. "The attack on Thistleberry a few days ago further drives home the point: the Order must take direct and immediate action. We have the numbers, we have the means. We know that Voldemort is based somewhere in the south, and that he will most likely move in from the sea. We are aware of areas that will eventually turn into Death Eater forward bases-if they aren't already. The time is now. We must secure these red zone areas and from there hunt down Voldemort's forces as soon as possible."

"A point of order," said Lyle, getting up. "Firstly, what we know as probable sites for Death Eater bases are simply that—'probable'. That those places are under Dark Order control is still speculation, and will remain so until our agents come up with solid evidence. Secondly, as of now, the Order has more reasons to defend than to attack. There are far too many undefended towns and villages in the south to ignore."

"That's it Lyle," murmured Sirius. "Give it to him straight!"

"We don't have enough manpower to cover all those areas if we remain defensive, " replied Galino. "Should we even try, our forces will be too spread out and easily overcome. I say we strike first, en masse, before Voldemort does. If we can cut him down before he gets more than a foothold in Britain then we can save more lives. Victory lies in the attack, not the defense."

There were several murmurs of both agreement and dissent. Sirius, however, bolted out of his chair and said, "We don't even know exactly what the composition of Voldemort's army is! He may or may not have the giants on his side! He may or may not have found a way to get to the Dementors! The only certainty we have is that what we _do_ know isn't complete—you can't expect us to fight under those conditions! The consequences could be disastrous!"

Galino regarded him as if he were a petulant child. "The giants have a simple ideology: side with those who are winning. As for the Dementors, we know from our sources that Voldemort has to get past the Ministry's barriers before he can enlist them, and in the past year he hasn't made a single move to do so. No, neither giants nor Dementors are the danger—hesitation is. Won't hesitating invite an even greater disaster? Who shall take responsibility for it?"

Sirius's dark eyes blazed, but Remus spoke up before he could. "Professor Dumbledore," he said, "what do you make of the situation?"

The whole time, the headmaster had his head bowed in deep in thought. He raised his eyes and looked from man to man. He said, "All of you have your opinions and I find each one as valid as the other. I am quite certain, however, that all our views will benefit from more information, which we can attain if we allow the rest of the speakers to proceed in an orderly fashion. For now, why don't we listen before we speak? Does everyone agree?"

Remus felt his chest loosen as everyone nodded in assent. He yanked Sirius's sleeve and the other man sat down, though still glowering. Galino allowed Arabella to take the floor and returned to his place without another word. He had, after all, made his point.

Another hour passed as reports followed in quick succession.

"There is still one factor we have not accounted for," Arabella said, "and that's the Ministry of Magic. As of today, the Ministry is still searching for evidence that the Order is not mere hearsay, and we have been successful in eluding their investigation. This will change, though, the more we take action against the Dark Order. Inevitably we will be found out, and soon."

Marius Haggerty went next. He conjured up a huge map of the United Kingdom onto the table and pointed out several areas he believed were in danger of being attacked first. He also noted choke points, places that were too risky to defend, and towns that they absolutely had to control. These appeared as many multi-colored dots on the illusionary map.

"What of Onyx Isle, Marius?" Remus asked. "Do we have any idea yet on its location?"

"'Onyx Isle, if that is its name," said Haggerty, "is still an enigma to us. The information we have heard is it's 'in the southern seas.' We have no solid proof that it _is_ Voldemort's headquarters."

Finally the last report finished, and Dumbledore called for short break. Lyle walked over to Mundungus and shook him awake.

Ignoring the tea and crumpets that sprang up from the table, Sirius stood up and stretched his legs. "Well, Moony, what do you make of it all?"

Remus leaned back into his chair, putting his hands behind his head. "Well, I think even if we have the centaurs on our side, Voldemort still has the element of surprise. Haggerty didn't spell it out but his observation is correct: for now, with our limited information, all we can do is to defend key towns and meet his forces there."

"I don't know," Sirius said. "I've a bad feeling Voldemort's up to something—why else would he wait a year before making a move?"

"He didn't wait a year," said Remus.

At Sirius's questioning look, he elaborated, "As early as September last year we have been receiving reports of missing Muggles from all over Britain. Counting it all together, the number of these incidents is roughly equal to that we had fifteen or sixteen years before. Yet unlike those past incidents, the bodies of the current victims were never discovered."

Sirius shrugged and said, "Perhaps they were abductions, not murders."

"I had assumed that myself. Let's think in that direction for a moment. I had noticed something common about the cases. All the victims were male, within the age range of 20 to 35, young, healthy, and with above-average physique."

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "This has to do with that dream Harry had last year, doesn't it? That hiker who vanished."

"Yes. Dumbledore's had me looking into this issue for the past few months. I've talked it over with Arabella and Mundungus, but we can't seem to fit all of the pieces together."

"Have you figured out why Voldemort's being selective about the Muggles he attacks?"

"All we have are speculations, but think for a moment: If you wanted to wage a war, why would you round up as many able-bodied men as possible?"

"If you wanted to press them into becoming slaves," Sirius grimly concluded, "or soldiers."

Their discussion was cut short when Dumbledore reconvened the meeting. This time around, things were far livelier as everyone pitched in his or her own opinions. For a while, everyone was talking about different things. Finally, Arabella's topic became the dominant issue.

"We can expect the Ministry to be uncooperative at best, hostile at worst," she said. "As the Minister himself does not believe the Dark Lord has returned, it is to be expected that his officers will be similarly skeptical. It is possible, however, to convince more Aurors to side with us in the ensuing fight. They are experienced in the ways of Dark Wizards and should be able to read the times far better than the heads of the Ministry."

"Although not that many," Lyle interjected. "There are Aurors who stand solidly behind the Fudge administration and will strive to maintain status quo."

"But there won't even be a status quo anymore if things keep on as they are!" cried young Aliora Syrrh. "Can't they see it? Missing Muggles! The Dark Mark during the World Quidditch Cup! Former Death Eaters going underground! And they still don't believe he's back?"

"People believe what they want to," Galino said. "These peaceful times have softened their heads. Besides which, you have to contend with the prevailing inertia—'Muggles don't matter'. Because they outnumber the wizarding population 800 to 1 here in England, so what if a number of them go missing? It does not directly affect them."

"That's inhuman," Aliora said angrily.

"Nonetheless, that is how a number of wizards think. Not everyone, but a considerable number. That's what we have to contend with."

"So, what do we do?"

A short silence ensued, broken by the voice everyone had been waiting to hear.

"It is clear," said Dumbledore, "that there are four issues requiring immediate attention. "

He got up from his chair, gazing into the faces of the gathered Order. As he watched the old man before them, Remus marveled at the faith people had in him. It was a testament to this faith that when Dumbledore called on them to face Voldemort once more, they questioned neither his news nor his sanity. They simply came.

Dumbledore said, "First, there is every indication that Voldemort's army is about to stage a large-scale attack. We must finish setting up our defenses as quickly and soundly as possible in the areas previously discussed. Marius has done an excellent job in pointing them out to us, and Lyle and Bernard have come up with a means to move into them when needed. We must use these to our advantage. Our company leaders will take their positions, secure the Front, and await the Dark Army's arrival."

Sirius and Remus nodded in unison. Being leaders of Company A, they knew they would find themselves in the thick of things soon enough.

"Second, we must be aware of what surprises Voldemort may have in store for us. Our intelligence over the past year has been effective, yet there are still many questions that need answering. What is Voldemort planning to do with the Muggles he has abducted? What other allies does he have here and abroad? What other strategies will he employ in his attacks? We must put our efforts to finding out more. Arabella, please see to these as soon as possible."

Arabella was already scribbling notes onto her parchment as he spoke.

"Meanwhile, Mundungus, are your Golems ready for any unorthodox threat we may face?"

Mundungus steepled his fingers and smirked. "Readier than a red-cheeked maiden, if you get me meanin'." Remus rolled his eyes.

"Third," Dumbledore went on, "while our numbers have increased with new members and our alliance with the Centaurs, we must not remain complacent. We cannot win this war without public support. While I have sent Hagrid and Madam Maxime to convince the giants to at least stay neutral, this seems no longer viable. Thus, we must continue our efforts into making as many people as we can aware of the Dark Lord's return. Aliora, we'll need your connections to sway more people, Muggles or wizards, to our cause. Keep it low-key, of course, as this will put us in direct opposition with the Ministry. Still, if worse comes to worst and we cannot hide our existence from them, Bernard and his men will give them a jolly good time trying to find us."

Aliora and Bernard nodded grimly as they took notes themselves.

"And fourth...the fourth issue is something I have been considering for many months now. Indeed, I may have been considering it since the Order's inception."

He paused, a look of utter seriousness in his eyes. Immediately, everyone stopped writing and looked up.

He said, "I have decided to pass on leadership of the Order of the Phoenix to another member of this gathering."

The quill dropped from Molly's hand, leaving a large inkblot on her parchment. Sirius's eyes grew to the size of saucers. Remus felt his mouth go dry. At that moment, even the most ardent and outspoken members of the Order sat stunned in their seats, leaving it to a bewildered Mundungus ask, "Eh, this a joke?"

Dumbledore smiled, but the gravity never left his eyes. "No, I am afraid not, Mundungus."

"I...I must have misheard you, Professor," said Aliora, "I can't believe I heard you say you're quitting your duties to the Order."

"It seems you _did_ mishear me, my dear," said the Headmaster. "I did not say I was quitting my duties to the Order. I merely said I was relinquishing my leadership of it."

Arabella spoke up next. "Professor...with all due respect...I don't think that changing the leadership of the Order at this stage of preparations is a good idea."

"Quite the contrary, dear Arabella, changing the leadership is the best idea I've had in a while. Let me tell you why.

"Firstly, you have correctly pointed out that the Ministry will soon become certain of the Order's existence. Naturally, I will be the first person they will suspect as ring leader. Meaning I shall be investigated, perhaps even detained. If I remain at Hogwarts, by all appearances being a "law-abiding citizen" performing his duties as headmaster of a school, any action they may take against me will not jeopardize the Order. "

"They _will _take action against you if they perceive you as the leader, sir, and it _will_ affect the Order one way or another."

"We cannot foretell the future, Arabella, but whatever happens to me, the Order should continue its function beneath a strong and able leader. This is what I am aiming for.

"Listen, my friends. How do you perceive the Order? If you see it as an extension of myself, my way of countering Voldermort, then it is a false vision, doomed to failure were it true. My view of the Order is a group of people of different skills and backgrounds, banding together for a common cause. This is not _my_ fight, it is _ours_. I helped bring all of you together. Now, the Order must operate autonomously from its creator.

"My second reason is far more pragmatic. Simply put, times have changed. The character of this war is different from the first one in both scale and substance. The situation entails that the leaders of both sides adopt an appropriate stance."

Haggerty raised his hand. "Forgive me, sir, but I do not see the difference. You were very much part of the struggle against Voldemort then. You fought alongside everyone else. Why should now be any different?"

"True enough," Dumbledore replied, "I joined the struggle then along with everyone else. But my words are no mere rhetoric.

"We know from our sources that Voldemort is not inclined to directly deal with matters when his army can handle them. He has learned not to be personally involved, a fault which contributed to his previous downfall. Furthermore, the Dark Order is different from what we remember of it. Very different. Arabella tells us that Voldemort has founded a set of unquestionably loyal officers to command a large, disciplined, efficient army. In the face of this, our old tactics will no longer serve us. Our previous "wars" had more in common with duels than actual wars. To counter this new Dark Order, we need to create something similar to it, and more than that. We need to improve. We need to innovate," he smiled, eyes twinkling, "and we need another person be our 'Chief Crazyhorse.'"

Diggory raised his hand, his face full of misgiving. "Yet...forgive me, Professor, but it _is_ true that you're the only wizard whom…whom You-Know-Who fears." He swallowed, suddenly looking ashamed. "If you were not to…deal with things directly…"

"I will join the fight if necessary, Amos, if that is your worry. We fight where we must, if we must. The same is true for me as it is for all.

"Yet for the most part I will content myself with the position of adviser. What we need is a general. It goes without saying that we need someone experienced in fighting the Dark Order, yet we also need someone well-versed in military affairs. Someone who can adapt faster to changes in a volatile situation. Someone possessing a strong character, willing enough to take up the burdens of the Order and uphold its principles. And, while not vital," he gave a small smile, "someone younger than I would be quite a bonus."

Aliora asked the next inevitable question, "Sir, if I may, who do you have in mind for your replacement?"

"That," Dumbledore said, gesturing to them with open palms, "is not for me to decide, but for all of _you_ to decide.

"We shall put the leadership of the Order to a vote, nominating those we believe worthy of the post—excluding myself, of course. Keep in mind that the one you nominate may become your Commander. While I shall stand as adviser, the Commander will make the final decisions on the Order's actions. Therefore, it behooves us all to choose with care.

"But I am getting ahead of myself. Naturally, my decision to change the leadership cannot be done without your support. I have presented my thoughts to you, and I hope you found it sensible. Now I must listen to what more you have to say. Tell me, do you accept my proposal?"

Once again, silence fell upon the assembly. The seconds ticked by as each person looked from one to the next, waiting for the scales to tip one way or the other.

That someone turned out to be Bernard Frost. Normally a solemn man who talked rarely and quietly, his tone became strong and certain as he got up to speak.

"If I may address the gathering," he said. "Allow me to share this with you.

"Nearly twenty years ago I was a simple, ordinary citizen, content in my work as a grocer and shoemaker. My wife and I lived a life free of troubles, until the year the Dark Lord descended upon Britain. As you know, I was witness to a murder committed by the Death Eaters, one of whom happened to be a ranking Ministry official. To protect themselves, they tried to kill me. My family and I had to run. There was nothing I could do, no one I could turn to.

"But friends told me to go to Professor Dumbledore for help. He hid us from the Death Eaters until I could expose the masked scoundrel in the Ministry.

"Today I have a good life, my children have families of their own. All this has been because of him. His wisdom and foresight have saved many more lives besides mine. Thus, if he says the wisest choice is to pass on leadership of the Order, I will support him. I know that he has thought this through. I have never before met a man humble enough to say he is not the best choice for a crucial task, and I am proud to be his ally. He knows that those gathered here are wise enough to choose a worthy leader. As he trusts in us, let us trust in him and in ourselves."

He took his seat amidst resounding applause. People nodded to themselves in agreement. Perhaps the change could be done. In fact, maybe Dumbledore was right—perhaps it _should _be done.

Sirius suddenly leaned towards Remus. "Moony?"

"Yes?"

"You will _not_ nominate me. If that thought's crossed your mind, you'd better get rid of it. Or else, full moon or not, I swear I'll drag you outside and thrash the living daylights out of you."

Remus grinned. "Nominate you? What a splendid idea! Thanks for broaching the idea, Padfoot."

Sirius scowled. "Fine. One good turn deserves another. I'll nominate you as well. _Then_ I'll beat you up."

Galino had stood up to address the group. "I agree with Bernard," he said. "I too am proud to be in the service of the Order of the Phoenix. It is the least I can do after all Professor Dumbledore has done for the wizarding world. Therefore, I call on everyone present to choose only the person they deem most worthy of succeeding its former leader. While there is no doubt that no one here can truly equal Professor Dumbledore, I am certain a number of us are worthy enough to lead. May victory go with the Order!"

His words were met with cheers and much private discussion on who to nominate. Sirius, however, merely watched with narrowed eyes as Galino took his seat. Galino's face betrayed no emotion. He calmly watched as everyone started choosing their candidates.

"If that smug son-of-a-bitch thinks he's going to get elected, he's got another thought coming," Sirius grumbled.

"Well," said Remus, "he's a prime contender. Got some backing, as you well know. He also has the experience Dumbledore was talking about. Even you have to grant him that."

"Who's side are you on, anyway?"

"Not to worry. All we need is another strong candidate to back up. I mean, well, there's always you."

"Not another word, Moony. Not. Another. Word."

His eyes suddenly went wide with epiphany.

"Remus! We can get—"

"I'm way ahead of you, Sirius."

The nominations went quickly and orderly enough. Dumbledore cleared the screen with his wand for the listing, and one by one, the members stood up to proclaim their nominees.

Loric Thistlemoat went first. "I respectfully nominate Marius Haggerty as Commander of the Order of the Phoenix."

Marius looked thoroughly shocked by this, yet he did not rise to object. At least, not directly. He got to his feet and said, "I...I nominate Arabella Figg for the position of Commander."

Arabella looked as if he had just played a ruthless prank on her. But she said nothing.

Amos Diggory followed. "I respectfully nominate Melvincent Galino as our Commander."

"Well," muttered Sirius, "didn't faint in surprise now, did I?"

Remus, however, stood and spoke in a loud clear voice. "I respectfully nominate Lionel Bishop as Commander of the Order."

Many gazes turned to Lyle, whose own sightless gaze turned to Remus. Before, the only expressions Remus had seen on Lyle's face were either unflappable calm or mild amusement. Now he looked like a man who'd been handed an arrest warrant. Yet like Marius, he gave no objection.

Two more candidates were named before Mundungus, filled with sudden inspiration, bolted out of his chair and cried, "In the interest of the Order, I nominate myself as Commander!" This was met with peals of much-needed laughter, followed by another round of applause. Mundungus took his time bowing to everyone in the room before sitting down.

He was, as it turned out, the last of the candidates. Dumbledore then conjured up a large fish bowl on the table, after which he created small pieces of paper that floated over the heads of the assembly. Everyone snatched them up.

"Please write your votes on the ballots," Dumbledore said. "Afterwards you may put them in the bowl."

Soon the whole assembly had Banished their ballots into the fishbowl. When the last vote was cast, Dumbledore called on Molly Weasley to read them aloud and both Firenze and Moonglow to audit. Dumbledore himself wrote the results on the banner with his wand.

In the end, the results were as thus:

_Lyle Bishop – 14_

_Melvincent Galino – 8_

_Arabella Figg – 6_

_Marius Haggerty – 4_

_Horace Underwood – 3_

_Roma Robertson – 3_

_Mundungus Fletcher – 1_

Everyone started talking at the same time as the winner became apparent. In the midst of it all, some heard Mundungus mumble, "Well, it was worth a try."

"Very well,' announced Dumbledore. "Lyle Bishop has been elected Commander of the Order of the Phoenix by popular vote of its members. If anyone objects, let them raise their hands and state their case."

He looked around at the gathering. Nobody moved. Lyle looked as if he had been caught in a Full-Body Bind.

"With that," Dumbledore went on, "I call on Lionel Bishop to accept the post of Commander. Lyle, would you please approach?"

All eyes were on Lyle as he stood up, moving as if he were underwater. He groped around the table for his wand. Bernard stood up and took him by the arm. Only when they began walking towards Dumbledore did the applause come—a trickle at first, then more and more, until finally everyone was on their feet clapping for the new Commander. The tally on the screen vanished and was replaced by these words:

_Lionel W. Bishop – 'Chief Crazyhorse'_

The applause died down as Lyle stood before Dumbledore. They shook hands, then he turned, very stiffly, to face the entire Order. His scarred blue eyes stared blankly. He looked very pale and very young.

But his voice was steady when he spoke.

"Fellow members, allies, friends, I am at once honored...and deeply humbled to have been chosen as leader of our Order."

His hand tightened around a wand that wasn't there, then relaxed.

"I have never envisioned things would turn out this way…not in a thousand ages would I have imagined I would stand here before you...trying to sew together my incoherent thoughts to make some semblance of a speech..."

His listeners chuckled. Lyle smiled wryly, then a spark of his old confidence lit up his face.

"However...I know one thing for certain. Though the leadership changes, the Order of the Phoenix remains the same. We will fulfill the same goals we started out with, on the same path we had decided to follow. We will continue our struggle for the same dream—a world free from the Dark Lord, a world we envisioned for our friends and families. This we shall never change. This we shall never surrender.

"I accept this role in good faith, because you trust me. I will fulfill this role as best I can. I only ask as your Commander, and as your friend, that you do the same."

He turned from one side to another. He could not see what was in the faces of the people gathered around him, but he felt the weight of their stares. In the years he spent in darkness, he had learned to sense the emotion in a person's gaze, the intention from the way one breathes. And at that moment he felt only solemn determination from all around him. He was not going to stand alone. They would fight for this dream together.

He cried, "May the Phoenix rise victorious!"

Everyone rose to their feet and shouted it with him. Dumbledore watched them, contentment in his smile. As with all the choices he had made this year, he was well satisfied with this one.

Evening came, and the chilly breeze carried with it the soft rustling of leaves and the hooting of distant owls. Overhead the pallid moon slipped through a sea of stars, casting its glow into Dumbledore's room in the Order's Headquarters.

Lyle stood by the window, breathing in the cool evening air. "When I was young, I once believed that the figure on the moon is actually a wise rabbit, and all day he makes rice cakes that allow men to live forever."

"There are other legends," said Dumbledore behind him, "one says the figure up there is Pan Twerdowski, singing hymns to the earth while he sits waiting for the end of time." The Headmaster reclined into his comfortable chair by the fire and nursed the mug of hot chocolate in his hands. A small smile crossed Lyle's face as he imagined Dumbledore wearing his favorite pair of woolen socks.

"But you didn't come here to exchange folk tales with me," Dumbledore mused.

"No, I didn't," Lyle replied, turning to the sound of the old man's voice.

"It must be important, if you were able to resist Sirius and Remus's attempts to kidnap you for a drinking session." The old man took a sip from his mug.

With his wand, Lyle guided himself to the chair opposite Dumbledore's. "There are some things I want to know."

"So it seems. Is something troubling you?"

Lyle laughed. "Oh, nothing much, I suppose. It's just that the greatest wizard of my time has just gone into semi-retirement, and I've been chosen to lead his Order to victory over the Dark Army. And I'm not even half his age, wisdom, or power. _That's_ what's troubling me."

"If it makes you feel better," replied Dumbledore. "I am not unhappy with the Order's choice for my replacement. Nor, I take it, are most of the members."

"Thank you, but that hardly helps." Lyle put his wand away and braced his elbows on his knees. "Won't you tell me your reason for doing this? Because there _is_ another, a deeper one, isn't there."

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Perceptive, as always." He sighed and allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair. "It's nothing that could possibly comfort you. My other reason, I'm ashamed to say, is somewhat selfish.

"Hogwarts is my home, Lyle. Hogwarts is my heart. I wish to remain there if I can. People may say I have a responsibility to the world, but what the world needs changes from season to season. Hogwarts will always need teachers. That is my work, no...that is my calling.

"I believe it is my duty to remain at the school, to use all my power into making it a sanctuary. Should our world start to crumble, the people can be assured that at least their children are safe. This, I hope, would give them the courage to fight.

"Yet even if it did not, this will remain the one duty I cherish most, one I do not wish to surrender. I call that selfish, of course. But then, I believe it would be good for a man to have one duty he could be selfish about." He gazed at Lyle. "Perhaps you understand, since you did not refuse your nomination. "

Lyle merely smiled in return.

"So we both acted out of sentimentality," Dumbledore said. "The fate of the world has been decided on more foolish things. "

As the old man sipped his chocolate, Lyle reflected that he had known Dumbledore practically all his life, but he had never heard the old man speak so frankly. It dawned on him that, at that moment, Dumbledore considered him as his equal.

"But why me?" Lyle asked. "Why am I right for this task?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I should have known you would not be satisfied simply by popular opinion."

"That's because I know others did greater things outside of the limelight," Lyle responded hotly. "Arabella Figg's intelligence allowed us to at least keep up with the Death Eaters. Marius Haggerty outlined many of our strategies and almost single-handedly created our chain of command. Melvincent Galino trained more men in four months than I could ever train in a year. Bernard Frost has made certain the Ministry hasn't the barest whiff of our movements. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin risked life and limb chasing Voldemort's agents all across Britain. All these people are capable and deserving enough to be the leader, yet I get put before all of them. I get chosen to _lead _them.

"So I feel I need to ask: _why is this so?_"

Dumbledore took one last sip from his chocolate before putting the mug down on the table beside him. He relaxed, laid his hands on his lap and said, "Let me tell you a story.

"Once there was a little boy from a rich, upstanding wizard family. Like many boys his age, he was one day asked, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' He had a ready answer: 'I want to be an Auror.'

"At this, his family laughed and ruffled his hair, saying, 'You can be whatever you want.'

"Soon his family sent him to a prestigious school for wizards and witches. There, many came to admire him—he was very smart, very brave, and most of all he knew what he wanted. While his friends wanted to be Medi-wizards or bankers or such, he said, 'I want to be an Auror.'

"By this time his family took him more seriously, because Defense Against the Dark Arts turned out to be his best subject. They said, 'An Auror's life is full of hardship and the rewards are next to nothing! Be practical—you'll want a good-paying job, won't you? You'll want to earn enough to support a family, won't you?' And they began talking about how much more suited he was to be a lawyer, a banker, a politician.

"The boy considered all this and shrugged. When he graduated, the headmaster, a kindly if rather befuddled old man, asked him what line of work he would be interested in. The boy asked him how one goes about being an Auror.

"'Why do you want to be an Auror?' the old headmaster asked.

"'Because I think that's what I'm meant to be doing,'" the boy said. "'No one keeps a candle in a well-lit room, when it shines brightest in the dark.'"

"He said this knowing full well that treacherous times were afoot, that an evil wizard was rising to power in Britain. He was not deterred. So the old headmaster put him in touch with a friend of his, an experienced Auror. When his family found out, they were alarmed and tried to stop them. Naturally, the old headmaster found himself in very hot water. But nothing could stop the boy. In no time at all he found himself studying Defense Against the Dark Arts, only this time in the Ministry of Magic. He worked harder than he had at school. Three years later he emerged a first-class, full-fledged Auror.

"By then the Dark Lord was at the height of his powers. Britain was in the grip of fear. The boy threw himself into his work, chasing after the Dark Lord's followers, earning their everlasting enmity. He did very well and this did not go unnoticed. He was made captain. Later on he was awarded medals for his work. He made his superiors very proud.

"Then one day, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement issued without any fanfare Directive 4055. This directive allowed the Aurors free reign on the use of Unforgivable Curses against those suspected to be followers of the Dark Lord.

"When the young Auror received this Directive, he refused to follow it. He had been able to catch Dark Wizards without resorting to Dark Magic and murder, and he wanted to continue as such. But a number of other Aurors did not share this view. They embraced their new authority, their power. Many atrocities were committed during those fell years, on both sides of the conflict.

"One day, the young Auror responded to a call for help from a sister team. He and his men rushed to the scene, only to find that the Aurors were already victorious—and were summarily executing the captured Dark Wizards. In single horrible second, five more bodies lay cold on the dusty street. The young man would never forget that sight.

"Enraged, he arrested those Aurors and reported the incident to the Ministry Head. He wanted them put on trial. But his efforts were blocked by the wall that was Directive 4055. His superiors told him to keep quiet. Others said he was damaging the organization's morale. And even when he went he took his story to the papers, hardly anyone raised an outcry. The victims were, after all, Dark Wizards. No one wanted to hear about the rights of killers. Days later, the accused Aurors walked free.

"After this, the young Auror's star began to fade. His superiors said he lacked the stomach to fight the Dark Side, and many of his peers forgot how often he risked his life out in the field with them. Life became difficult, but the young Auror kept to his duties even if he often had to work alone.

"But one can only do so many things alone.

"It happened one day, his fellows rushed to an emergency call. They found the young Auror lying amidst a web of shattered glass. He had been caught in a Death Eater ambush, shot through a window and fallen two stories. The young man somehow survived, but he lost his sight forever.

"Finally, finally the Dark Lord's power was broken. His followers were sent on the run and the world began to rebuild itself. Hardly anyone remembered the atrocities committed during the war. But the young Auror did. He would never forget it."

The firelight played on Dumbledore's glasses as he gazed at Lyle. The young man was completely silent.

"You know," Dumbledore said, "the story doesn't end there.

"Some years later, quite by chance, the young man met the befuddled old Headmaster again. After some pleasantries, the old man asked him about his job.

"'I'm no longer an Auror,' said the young man. And he told the Headmaster what had happened to him.

"'Well,' said the old man, 'why don't you come with me? There are some folks I'd like you to meet. We're starting a group of our own, and we need people like you.'

"At first, the young man's handicap made him reluctant. But the old man persisted. He said, 'No one keeps a candle in a well-lit room. It shines brightest in the dark.'

"So the young man did join them, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Dumbledore leaned forward, hands on the arms of his chair.

"Lyle, the Order has picked the right person to be its caretaker—a man committed to walking the path his heart had forged. I have seen this for myself. Why doubt the good others see in you? "

Lyle sat still for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath and said, "Do you have any more chocolate?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Of course. You like yours cold, right?" He Summoned a mug from a cabinet, conjured some ice cubes, and poured him some chocolate from his pitcher. They sat together in silence, drinking and staring at the fire.

Finally, Lyle said, "Are you always so sure of your actions?"

Dumbledore smoothed his beard and said, "People make me sure of my actions. I just take my cue from them." He leaned forward again, "So tell me, what do you plan for tomorrow?"

Lyle sat up. His demeanor became serious, business-like. "Tomorrow, more meetings. We've a lot of work ahead of us. And I still have more questions for you, you know," he added, frowning. "Something tells me you've been up to a lot of other things, without telling us."

"Oh, I've been very good, let me assure you," said Dumbledore, palms up in a placating gesture.

Then they got up and shook hands. "I thank you sir," said Lyle, "for putting your faith in me."

"I have very good reasons for it, don't you think?"

Lyle smiled again, then began to leave. At the doorway he stopped and turned around. "There is one thing."

"What is it?"

"It's not a question. More of a request really."

Dumbledore eyed him quizzically.

"Could we please _not_ refer to me as 'Chief Crazyhorse?'"

The old headmaster chuckled.

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter VI : In The Lair of the Serpent**_

_Onyx Isle is located many miles south of England, far from any sight of land. During the Phoenix War, the Isle defied all attempts of pinpointing its exact location as it had the tendency to vanish and reappear somewhere else, probably via a Permanent Apparate Spell System installed by the Death Eaters (See Apparation, EA Vol. 1) ... Made of dark igneous rock and hardened lava flows, the Isle emerged after an undersea volcanic eruption of substantial intensity. Sharp crags jutting along its shores create a treacherous natural barrier against ships…_

_..No one is certain who had built the ruins on the Isle. Some historians claim the Isle had been the hidden retreat of Morgan le Fay. Others say Havlan had used the Isle during the height of the Ogre Wars. Still others believe it had been Grindelwald's forward base for his aborted assault on Britain._

_One thing for certain is that the Dark Lord rediscovered the Isle shortly after his second rise to power. When he landed on its shores, he had reputedly said, "Here shall I make my forge to darkness." He named it Onyx Isle and rebuilt the fortress in its heart._

— _Excerpts from "Onyx Isle", __**Encyclopedia Arcana**_

The Flying Dutchman had been alive once; a sturdy ship with tall masts and sails like the white wings of doves, running trade voyages as far north as Iceland and as far south as the Cape of Good Hope. That was long, long ago. Now her journeys were confined to but a handful of places. Her steady wooden planks had gone corpse-gray, her sails pale as an old crone's hair. Her own captain would not have recognized her, but then he now slept at the bottom of the sea, sent there centuries before by the ship's current captain.

The Flying Dutchman ferried only one passenger that day, a tall stranger who stood at the ship's bow. He was scarecrow-thin, pallid, and clad in black from the tall collar of his billowing cloak to the shiny leather of his boots. A long crimson scarf clung around his shoulders and a skullcap covered his bald head. His ivory beard was well-trimmed, his long, hooked fingers were lined with golden rings. A pair of dark round glasses perched on his aqualine nose.

He stood with his hands on the railing, staring into the mists beyond. The sea was choppy today—a storm wind stirred whitecaps from the waves, and he breathed in the heavy scent of brine. Presently, the captain of the ship, a stooped, gap-toothed shadow of a man, floated over to where he stood.

"Pleas'nt mornin' to ye, sir," he said in a disembodied voice.

"And to you, Captain," returned the man.

"Ye can't see it yet, not through this weath'r."

"Actually," he said, "I can see it just fine." Far off, the stone crags of Onyx Isle emerged from the mist, like a jaw of a gigantic sea monster. "How do we get past the barriers surrounding the Isle?"

The captain cackled, not a pleasant sound.

"Me bonnie ship knows how, sir, ye'll see."

The stranger did not have to wait long to find out what the Captain meant. Several yards from the jagged rocks the ship began to rise into the air. It flew higher and higher, clearing the massive spires with ease.

"Interesting," the stranger said as he watched the rocks pass beneath them. "Your vessel more than lives up to its name."

"Aye," replied the ghost, 'tis not bad place to be, me Flyin' Dutchman. Unless ye've to spend all 'ternity in it."

The stranger grabbed the rails for support as the ship landed on the rocky beach with a loud crash. When the ship steadied itself, he straightened up and adjusted his glasses.

"I thank you, Captain, for taking me here. It has been a pleasant journey."

The ghost bellowed his laughter as they moved to the gangway, "Thar's somethin' I won't be hearin' again! Them Death Eaters don't get a wink o' sleep in me Flyin' Dutchman—they be quakin' in their beds long into the night. But you..."

They stood at the plank for a moment. "I would shake hands," said the stranger, "but seeing as we're on different stages of corporeality, perhaps a salute will do?" He did so.

"Aye," grinned the captain, returning the gesture. "Glory to the Dark Lord."

"Yes," replied the man, "quite." He turned and walked down the sloping gangway onto the rocky shore.

The captain called after him. "The Death Eaters will be comin' to get their shipment. You did let them know yer comin', aye?"

The stranger said nothing, but turned his gaze up to his destination.

The fortress loomed before him, massive as a thundercloud. In the places where its walls touched the land's cliff edges, it created a hundred foot drop into the swirling ocean below. Its highest tower vanished into the low gray clouds overhead. Though hewn from the cold gray stone of the Isle, the fortress somehow did not seem part of it. It looked more like a huge claw clutching onto the heart of the land, an image reinforced by the steel, talon-shaped spikes running along its battlements.

"So this is where you live now, Voldemort?" the man whispered. "What a difference a year can make."

He began trudging up the path carved out of the volcanic rock. He had walked perhaps fifty paces when the air suddenly shimmered and eight Death Eaters Apparated around him, wands in hand.

"Halt," said the one directly in front of him. He did.

"Trespasser," the leader went on, "you have entered the territory of the Dark Lord Voldemort. You will drop your wand and surrender at once. Resist and you will be killed where you stand."

"You're rather late," the man said, clasping his hands behind his back. "I expected to be accosted the moment I set foot on the beach."

The leader narrowed his eyes.

"I have business with your master," the visitor went on. "I am Andros Gallowbraid. Perhaps someone here has heard of me? Ah, I see," he said, noting their blank looks, "all new recruits. Charming. Now stand aside."

"Be silent!" roared the leader. "I remember no Andros Gallowbraid on the roster of Death Eaters. Now yield, or die!"

"My dear fellow," Gallowbraid said mildly, "you do not remember my name in the roster because it simply isn't listed. I am no Death Eater..."

The others quickly raised their wands.

"...but I am an agent of the Dark Lord. He knows me from way back, and will be most displeased at the mistreatment of a comrade. Now, much as I hate to repeat myself, get out of my way."

The Death Eaters began to look uncertain at these words and at Gallowbraid's relaxed demeanor, but their leader remained adamant. "The Dark Lord will confirm that himself, when I bring you before him in a Full-Body Bind." Gallowbraid heard a grin in that voice. "I see no proof of your identity—all I have are words! And now, much as _I _hate to repeat myself, surrender or—"

Gallowbraid muttered something under his breath. The Death Eater abruptly stopped talking and stood motionless.

Gallowbraid nodded to him. "What's the matter, my friend? Weren't you just saying something?"

All eyes now turned to the leader, who kept staring straight at the trespasser.

"Come now, say something. I believe most of your sentences end with 'or die.'"

There was silence, then a low groan emitted from the leader's throat. The Death Eaters exchanged alarmed glances. The one behind Gallowbraid aimed his wand and began muttering a spell. His incantation ended with a scream as his own wand turned on him, igniting his robes. "Put it out, put it out!" he cried as he flailed about, flames consuming him.

Another Death Eater tried to cast a curse. Gallowbraid merely threw a glance at her, then her wand arm twisted like a corkscrew and she fell to the ground screaming. Her horrified companions could only watch as her arm deforming itself, until it broke with a wet snapping sound and she passed out from the agony. Some of her comrades dropped their wands. Others retreated several steps more from the intruder.

Throughout the chaos, Gallowbraid had kept his hands behind his back.

"My friend," he said to the still-frozen leader, "you have had the grave misfortune of being born after my time, and if I may add, being perhaps a tad too ambitious. But fear not. I will commend your bravery to the Dark Lord when I meet with him. Perhaps he will remember the devotion you have shown today, and will allow other youths to be inspired by your example." He smiled a cruel, pointed grin.

The leader suddenly hurtled backwards as if struck by an invisible giant fist. All eyes were riveted to his body as he flew through the air without so much as a scream, rocketing headfirst towards a lone pillar of solid rock—

And froze in mid-flight one yard from a deadly collision.

Gallowbraid turned his gaze up to the lone Death Eater who had Apparated on top of the pillar, wand pointed at the suspended body. Like his comrades, he was clad in black from head to foot, his features concealed by a mask. The sea breeze made his robes billow like a dark cloud. With a wave of his wand he countered the curse. The young Death Eater dropped to the ground, dazed but alive.

The newcomer's voice was deep and calm. "Magnus Aragon, Captain of the Onyx Wing." He slipped his wand into his belt. In an instant he Reapparated a few meters before Gallowbraid. Even on level ground, he towered head and shoulders over the others.

Gallowbraid tapped his chin. "Magnus. Yes, I've heard of you. Lucius Malfoy's kinsman, correct? I see the rumors about your skills with the wand are true…"

"You have hexed a Death Eater officer with intent to kill," Magnus interrupted coldly. "An act of treason on the Dark Lord's own Isle."

"Treason?" Gallowbraid repeated, smiling at Magnus. "I was merely instructing these young men and women on the dictum our Lord Voldemort wishes to ingrain into those who serve him. _Death is power_, and power is the raison d'etre of you Death Eaters. Surely you can see that."

Magnus's hood fell back as he removed his mask. He was young, but the hair that fell onto his shoulders was coarse and gray. His face could have been cut from stone, from his wide forehead to the solid chin above his thick neck. "What I see," he said, "is an officer nearly killed for performing his duty." His face remained empty, but his gray eyes blazed with ill-concealed fury. "And the Dark Order exists only to serve Lord Voldemort; you insult us all by saying otherwise."

Gallowbraid laughed. "How simple you are, dancing so willingly with every jerk of your master's strings. Very well, play your little games if you must. I have my business to attend to. Let me pass."

In response, Magnus drew back his cloak with his left arm. His wand hung like a sword from a leather sheath on his belt. His right hand flexed minutely.

Gallowbraid's grin vanished. "So be it. I will oblige you, Captain, since you're so eager to die."

The Death Eaters surrounding them faltered back another step. The two men were only staring stonily at each other, yet the sensation of power was palpable and terrifying, as if a current of electricity was passing through the air.

But before either could move, yet another man Apparated in their midst. He was short, rotund, balding, and his face was red with anxiety. A hand of pure silver glittered from his left arm.

"Cease and desist!" he bellowed, "Death Eaters stand down! What's happening here?"

"Nothing to be concerned with, sir," growled Magnus. "Merely disposing of some refuse that washed up on the beach."

Pettigrew whirled to face Gallowbraid and instantly paled, a look of recognition and horror crossing his face. "_You!_ What are you doing here?! How dare you simply barge in—"

Gallowbraid smiled again, but remained facing his opponent. "A pleasure to see you, Peter Pettigrew. Or do you prefer Wormtail? Are you well?"

"You're jeopardizing the Isle's security! Lord Voldemort will—"

"Yes, yes. I would love to discuss the virtues of a safe haven with you. Just now, however, I must keep a pressing engagement with His Lordship. Do you mind showing me the way, or must I persist on my own?"

"I-I received no instructions to let you in!" Wormtail said in a shrill voice.

"I received instructions to let myself in."

Pettigrew bit down on his fear and outrage, and turned to Magnus. "Captain Aragon! In the name of Lord Voldemort, I must ask you to stand down!"

Magnus did not budge, kept his gaze locked on Gallowbraid's dark glasses.

"Magnus! I said stand down! Lord Voldemort will not tolerate any further aggression!"

Several tense moments passed. Finally, Magnus allowed his cloak to fall back over his wand. His right hand, however, did not relax.

"Well, well," Gallowbraid said, "Looks like you have moved up in the world, Wormtail. Now, the Dark Lord?"

He began walking again without waiting for a reply. The circle of Death Eaters hastily broke to let him pass. All save for Magnus.

As Gallowbraid passed him, Magnus said, "As Officer-on-Duty, I must warn you not to wander freely through the fortress without Voldemort's expressed permission." His voice dropped a notch. "If you stray, one cannot say what sort of misfortune may befall you." Then he Disapparated.

Gallowbraid continued up the path towards the fortress. "Coming, Wormtail?" he called. "I don't think you want me stumbling about the castle. I might meet another zealous youngster intent on stopping me. Don't want to jeopardize security any further now, do we?"

Pettigrew hesitated, considered reporting directly to the Dark Lord, but decided his punishment would be more severe if he could not contain another potential disaster. "Don't just stand there!" he shouted at the remaining Death Eaters. "Bring the cargo inside. Be quick about it! We're behind schedule as it is!" Then he scurried after Gallowbraid.

When he caught up, Gallowbraid said, "I wasn't aware of the Isle's whereabouts, but the Captain was accommodating enough to take me here along with your new shipment."

Pettigrew's eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about the shipment? Who told you about The Flying Dutchman?"

"I was in France when I received Voldemort's summons. I contacted Crabbe while he was in Wales and he introduced me to the Captain. As for your precious cargo, I've no interest in that. I don't know what you're hiding in there."

"You expect me to believe you?"

Gallowbraid laughed. "Believe what you want, Wormtail. It matters little to me either way. Where is Lord Voldemort?"

"…He's in the North Tower," Pettigrew said through gritted teeth.

The main entrance was blocked by a portcullis of black steel. "Open the gate!" shouted Pettigrew. A confirmation rang down from the gatehouse and portcullis began to lift, groaning like a tortured man. The two of them walked into the gloomy maw of the castle. Pettigrew had to walk slowly, but Gallowbraid did not once stumble in the dark.

They came to the main hall of the fortress. Large, torch-bearing statues flanked the huge double doors of studded brass. Gallowbraid studied them as he passed. The one to his left was ox-headed: a minotaur. The one to his right was a horse-headed _tikbalang_, an earth spirit indigenous to Southeast Asia_. _Gallowbraid noted that their eyes followed him as he walked.

The main hall itself was vast enough to fit a full army. Six stout granite pillars, carved to give the impression of monstrous, coiled serpents, supported the high domed ceiling. Long banners of the Dark Mark hung from the walls. Frescoes featuring scenes of death and destruction had been painted on the walls below them. Some Death Eaters were busily making yet another, each of their wands directing at least half a dozen brushes.

"I must commend your workforce, Wormtail," said Gallowbraid, "for creating such a fortress in but a year."

"The outer sections were from the original fortress," replied Pettigrew, "but many of the newer sections were taken from an old castle in Bulgaria. It took a tremendous amount of spellcasting to move it here piece by piece, but in the end we saved more time."

"The architects are graduates from Durmstrang, perhaps?"

"They are. His Lordship chose only the best to work on his home. As it is, we have completed only the structure of the fortress—"

"Leaving only the decorations unfinished. So who is handling that? You?" The cruel smile returned.

"Malfoy's wife is overseeing the final touches to the Dark Lord's home," seethed Wormtail. "I am his Adjutant. I work on military matters."

"Of course you do. Now, which way to the Tower?"

They walked to the center of the hall where lay a circular dais of black marble. The platform was surrounded by a round steel railing with gaps on opposite sides. Wormtail quickly climbed onto the platform through a gap, motioning for Gallowbraid to follow. When they both stood within the railing, Wormtail said, "This is His Lordship's private mode of transportation in the fortress." He pointed his wand at the floor and said, "North Tower."

The circular tiles dislodged themselves and lifted them soundlessly through the air. Gallowbraid looked down at the swiftly receding floor, then turned his face up to the ceiling.

Several large holes gaped in the stone, and the platform slipped into one of them. Inside was darkness and a warm draft, which for a moment gave Gallowbraid the impression of being in the gullet of some gigantic beast.

The tiles shifted direction beneath their feet. Seconds later, a pale green light seeped into the passageway from the exit above. It grew brighter as they approached, until they entered an antechamber. Gallowbraid saw that the light emanated from dozens of torches and braziers burning with yellow-green flames. Turning to his right, he faced a pair of massive ironroot double doors.

The platform stopped at the level of the floor and both men got off. Wormtail moved to the double doors, but they opened on their own and Lucius Malfoy stepped out.

"Ah, there you are, Peter," he said, then shifted his attention completely to their guest. "Andros Gallowbraid, a pleasure to see you again! It's been some time." If Malfoy had any misgivings about seeing Gallowbraid, he made certain not to show it. He even held out his hand, which Gallowbraid accepted.

"The pleasure is mine, Lucius. It is refreshing to finally meet a member of the Inner Circle," He ignored Wormtail's glare.

"I had just informed His Lordship of your arrival," Malfoy continued. "Let's not tarry any longer. The Dark Lord has asked me to show you into his Chambers."

"My thanks, Lucius."

Malfoy moved to make way for them. The walked through a long hallway, lined with similar green-flame torches.

"We received word of your arrival from the Officer-on-Duty," Malfoy said, "I understand there was some trouble…"

"Hardly," Gallowbraid replied. "Some upstart lieutenant wanted to curry the Dark Lord's favor. His Captain interfered with his schooling."

"I see. In any event, please excuse my nephew. He tends to be overly scrupulous in such matters. I have advised him to overlook such trivial things, yet he persists. Ah, the youth! To be fair, Voldemort allows him and his cohorts free reign on the military because of their unquestioned sense of duty."

Gallowbraid nodded. "I'll grant him that. He certainly did have balls."

"To put it that way, yes he does. Amazing, isn't it, the loyalty that may be gained from such men?"

"What did Lord Voldemort promise them?"

"What they wanted, of course. A new World Order, free from the shackles of incompetent civil governments, a world they could shape with their own dreams and their own hands. Or something to that effect. Whatever keeps them faithful.

"And the Dark Lord builds his army on the backs of such loyal servants. Why, it was this generation's efforts that allowed the rapid reorganization of the Death Eaters. We culled some of our people from Durmstrang, but others came from abroad—subversives hiding from their governments, mercenaries, riffraff, et cetera. We have more members in our ranks, yet all are well trained and disciplined. All thanks to our young commanders. So you see, it would be a grievous blow to the Dark Order should we, ah, lose Magnus's services."

Gallowbraid laughed inwardly. Malfoy had not changed over the years. If it was true that the Death Eaters had reformed into a well-organized syndicate, then he had made certain his family was built into the power structure before the time of victory. Magnus was an investment worth protecting.

"Tell me something, Lucius," he asked abruptly, "why did the Death Eaters attack Thistleberry two nights before? I do not find any merit in such a piddling little village."

"Ah," Malfoy said, smirking, "Lord Voldemort said our supply of Muggle volunteers was coming up short."

Gallowbraid frowned. "Volunteers?"

"I would love to give you the details, but His Lordship wants the pleasure of explaining it himself."

They reached the end of the hallway, where stood another set of heavy double doors. Upon them was a large steel sculpture of a snake biting its own tail. Gallowbaid recognized Orobouros, the Eternal Serpent.

"Welcome to our Master's—er, how should I say it—Meditation Chamber," said Malfoy. "It is not really wise to disturb him while he's in here, but I am certain this is a matter of great import. Would you do the honors, Peter?"

Wormtail did not look happy at all with this request, but he stepped forward and raised the knocker. He released it, and a loud _bong_ sounded into the room.

"Master!" called Wormtail. "Your loyal servant brings you your honored guest, Andros Gallowbraid! We humbly ask for an audience, my Lord!"

There was a pause, then the steel serpent came alive. Eyes glowing a baleful yellow, it crawled in a fluid circle on the doors' surface. The sound of grinding gears filled the air. It halted when the snake's head reached the apex of the circle, then the sculpture split in two as the doors grated open.

For the first time in years, Gallowbraid heard the Dark Lord's voice, like the low keening of the north wind through barren trees.

"_Enter_."

The three men stepped into the room. A crimson carpet covered the floor. Heavy curtains blocked the windows, leaving the room deep in shadow. The fireplace at the other end of the room was a massive stone sculpture of a dragon's head, a crackling fire burning in its jaws. Before the fire, six high-backed chairs threw long fingers of shadow down the carpeted floor. Near the center chair, an enormous serpent lay coiled, asleep.

"My Lord?" Wormtail called, shivering.

A figure stood from the tallest chair and turned to face them, and once more Gallowbraid met the carnivorous red eyes of the Dark Lord. He felt hatred flare in his heart, but it was matched by a cold spasm of fear. He suppressed a shudder and with a calm face bent on one knee.

"My Lord," he said, "I am at your service."

"Welcome back, Andros," intoned Voldemort. The last syllable came in a low hiss. "I trust you put the small time you had out of my service to good use?"

"Fifteen years isn't exactly small time, my Lord," Gallowbraid said. "I have scoured the Earth, gathering as much knowledge and power as I could, readying myself should the time to serve you come again."

The Dark Lord gave a hollow laugh. His red eyes remained fixed on Gallowbraid's hidden ones. The fire at the hearth seemed to waver, as if threatened by a gust of wind.

"In other words, you spent fifteen years trying to find a way out of your contract. You have changed little, faithless one. Tell me, have I changed? What do you see before you, through those eyes of yours?"

Gallowbraid paused, taking in the slender, corpse-white frame swathed in long, dark robes. "…I see that My Lord is well and healthy, that he has recovered to full strength." Gallowbraid tilted his head. "Yet there is something else. I cannot decipher it…"

"Can you not guess, Andros?" Voldemort said as he moved towards him, arms akimbo. His long robe slithered behind him. "I have something else in this flesh that makes me more than what I was, fifteen years ago."

Gallowbraid instantly realized what this meant. He had known of such a spell and the terrible price it exacted, and was impressed that Voldemort had been able to snatch so much from certain doom. He was certainly more powerful now, with the blood of his enemy flowing through his veins, but there was something else. Something was amiss in the way Voldemort held his body, and Gallowbraid imagined he saw a subtle stiffness in those limbs, a tiny spasm in the muscles of a hand. He could not fathom what it meant, but his intuition, honed by many years of treachery and deceit, told him that the Dark Lord was not as strong and hale as he claimed to be.

Nonetheless Gallowbraid said, "…I see. You used the Necropotence Spell. It has restored your body and your power," he grinned as he remembered something, and slowly turned to Pettigrew. "I can see why you made Wormtail here your right-hand man."

Wormtail started to bluster, but fell silent as Voldemort said, "He has proven himself useful, Andros. You have yet to do so. Now, rise."

When Gallowbraid stood up, Malfoy said, "My Lord, good news. The shipment has arrived and is ready for use. The preparations should begin any moment now."

"Of course it is, Lucius. I shall begin my inspection shortly. Join me, both of you, and I will explain what needs to be done. We have plenty to discuss." He gestured to Wormtail. "Bring me the Felwing Skull."

Wormtail bowed and fled to a dark corner of the room. Voldemort led Malfoy and Gallowbraid to the circle of chairs and bade them to sit. They were close to the fire, but neither man felt the least bit warm.

"Tell me, Gallowbraid," said Voldemort, "what do you think of my new abode?"

"It is truly a wonder. I have not seen anything so quickly constructed, yet still formidable."

"It had to be as such, Andros. This fortress does not merely function as a Death Eater base." He steepled his fingers before him. "You have seen the shipment?"

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I have not."

"It does not matter. You shall know soon enough." He paused as Wormtail came to his chair, holding a large, ornate skull in his hands. Gallowbraid stared at it. It was bird-like in shape, it appeared to have had two pairs of eyes, and rows of jagged teeth still lined its massive jaws.

Voldemort ran his fingers over the artifact, as if in affection. "The Felwing, known also as the Sky-Shark. Cunning, savage, implacable, and now all but extinct. Yet during the Dark Ages, nothing was more feared than a Felwing hunting pack. They advanced over Europe in a black tide, savaging people, destroying whole communities. Feared not only for their ferocity and their numbers, but also for their relentlessness. Should a village repel an attack, it was certain that the Felwing would one day return in greater numbers, attacking again and again until the village was finally destroyed." He smiled, a terrible, rictus grin. "So shall my Death Eaters be."

He turned his gaze to the men gathered before him. "When I rose again, I decided that my followers needed a change. In the past we were too scattered, too disorganized. We knew what we wanted, but we allowed the path to lead us. We did not forge it, and thus were we easily scattered. But we shall do things differently now. The time has come to lead not a mob, but an army."

He raised the skull with one hand. "All of you, stand up and lay your hand on this."

When they did so, Voldemort whispered, "_Necropolis_."

There was a blinding flash of green, the sensation of being pulled through the air, and when Gallowbraid looked about, they were no longer in Voldemort's chambers.

"This is not merely a home, Andros," said Voldemort. "It is a factory."

"'Factory', my Lord?"

"A Muggle concept that I have borrowed. Factories are created for the purpose of 'mass production.' That is the function here."

Andros peered around him. They had been transported to the bottom of a huge cavern, perhaps the very bowels of the fortress. The ceiling soared at least a hundred feet above them. Levels were carved onto the stone walls, the widest being the topmost circle, then gradually shrinking to a small circle at the base that spanned some twenty paces. It looked like a hive turned upside-down. Everywhere he turned there were torches and braziers, yet somehow, instead of illuminating the place, they only made the shadows more pronounced.

On the walls of each level were cells fitted with thick iron bars. Things moved in the shadows within. Gallowbraid's ears caught the sound of snarls and low growling. Death Eaters were moving from one cell to another, buckets in their hands.

"I used to despise Muggles and all things related to them," said the Dark Lord as he moved to the circle at the base of the room, "but now I see they have their uses."

At the center of the circle sat a huge cauldron, its sides long grayed by the billowing flames. Beside it were rows of wax-sealed clay jars. Three Death Eaters were busy opening the jars and carefully pouring what looked like molten silver, streaked with black, into the cauldron.

"What is it?" Andros asked, approaching.

Beside him, Malfoy said, "I'm sure you're familiar with this substance. A prime ingredient in Sleeping Draughts?"

Gallowbraid paused for a moment. "Not wormwood?"

"It is."

"I've never seen wormwood like this."

"It is in its purest form," said the Dark Lord, "unadulterated by anthreise and other foreign matter." He dipped one skeletal finger into the cauldron and drew it out. It shone, reflecting the torchlight. "The giants were magnanimous enough to tell us of a place in Southern Ireland where we could mine 'pretty silver.' They did not realize it was something far more valuable."

Gallowbraid said, "And what, may I ask, do you need it for? Wormwood alone is a powerful toxin. Without the other necessary ingredients for the Sleeping Draught, any wizard who swallowed a spoonful would die in excruciating pain." He paused again. "This shall be your weapon, then? Poison?"

The Dark Lord grinned again and started walking. They followed him, Wormtail purposely falling behind as if he knew what was coming.

"It is true, Gallowbraid," said Voldemort, "that wormwood is a poison. And yes, it did cross my mind to use it as such. But many poisons have an antidote, as you should well know. Assassination alone will not assure a victory. No, I have found a much better use for our precious cargo.

"Wormwood is poisonous to our kind, Gallowbraid, yet have you ever wondered what it would do to Muggles?"

They were walking towards the cells. The sound of growling came louder, more ferocious.

"Two hundred years ago, the wizard Nightgaunt wrote of a strange behavior his Muggle test subjects exhibited when he fed them Sleeping Draught. Instead of falling into slumber, the Muggles...changed. In his journals he wrote, 'they transformed into vicious, twisted versions of themselves, as if they had been deformed from birth. Their strength doubled by madness, they snarled and clawed the doors of their prison in wild attempts to escape...'"

They were walking along the line of cells. Gallowbraid looked inside them in amazement. There were..._things_ in there.

They were large and gray-skinned, with long, pointed ears, arms as long as a gorilla's, mouths lined with needle-like teeth and hands with dagger claws. Some were bald, others covered with shaggy, matted hair. They growled and snapped at him as he passed, yellow eyes glittering madly.

Before them, Voldemort continued. "Nightgaunt studied his concoction and eventually concluded that an overdose of wormwood had caused the effect. He believed it was _pure_wormwood, a very rare natural occurrence. He was captured before completing his research, however. Still, he would have been happy to know that his studies have not gone to waste."

He approached a particularly large cell. The Death Eater there rigidly bowed before him.

"Master."

"MacNair. How is my child?"

"My Lord, he has grown stronger, just as you predicted. Two days ago he succeeded in bending the bars of his cell despite the Reinforcing Charm we had installed, and we had to put up a stronger one. It seems the larger dose of wormwood is causing him to change further instead of killing him, as it had with the others."

Voldemort nodded. "He has not disappointed me. He will serve me well when his time arrives." He half-turned to Gallowbraid. "I would have liked to demonstrate a transformation for you, but the time is late, and our larder of Muggles is used up at the moment. You will have to be content with seeing the end result." He raised his palm and a sphere of orange light materialized over it. "Come closer and examine this one. He is my favorite."

With the exception of Wormtail, they approached the illuminated cage, peering at its lone occupant.

Gallowbraid had seen many wondrous and fearsome creatures in all his years of wandering, but he had met nothing like this nightmare. It was prowling about the cage on all fours. Its body was smaller than an ogre's, yet it looked very compact, its muscles twitching and rippling along its arms and chest like snakes writhing beneath its skin. Its skin was scaly and shiny black, from the tip of its dog-like face to its stub tail. Its eyes were completely round and bereft of eyelids, iris and cornea; in the gloom they shone with a pale, unnatural light. A clicking sound emanated from the creature. At first Gallowbraid thought it was the sound of its claws on the stone floor, but it turned out to be something else. Huge gray mandibles protruded from either side of the creature's slavering jaws. They clicked together noisily, reminding him of a grotesque and hungry mantis.

"Michael Dunn," said Voldemort.

The creature stopped pacing, sensing their presence. Then it raised itself on its hind legs like a man and let out an unearthly cry in two voices—an ear-splitting screech and deep rumbling roar. Its mandibles clicked furiously.

Malfoy took a step back. Behind him, Gallowbraid heard Wormtail whimper.

"I have waited a year," whispered Voldemort, "a full year for the final fruition of my plans. Now I have my fortress. I have my troops. And I have my children. Together, they shall lead the front lines, tearing my enemies to pieces. They shall tread on the heads of the infidels. They shall carve out my Empire with their claws."

He turned to face Gallowbraid and Malfoy. "Preparations need to be done. Your role, Andros, is vital. You will make sure no united force shall stand against my army."

"And by a united force, you mean the Order of the Phoenix?"

Voldemort smiled. "So you keep abreast of current events, after all. Dumbledore's little band of toy soldiers have eluded our grasp for some time now, but they will not do so for long. I have planned their defeat, and you shall be instrumental to it. I am sending you to the mainland. Lucius shall accompany you and provide the details. There are some people inLondon I wish you to meet."

"London, you say?" Gallowbraid adjusted the glasses on his face and nodded dubiously. "I will be much obliged to go there, Your Lordship. There is however, just one thing that brooks attention..."

"Speak."

"While I am virtually unknown here in Britain, I'm afraid that a certain person would recognize me on the spot should I meet him in the city. You know who I speak of, and you know that a disguise will not help me keep my cover."

Voldemort dismissed this with a gesture. "I have no interest in your petty feuds. Kill him if you must. Only, complete your mission by the appointed time."

"Thank you, Your Lordship. And what shall I do when I see these people you wish me to meet?"

Voldemort raised his hands, palms up. "What you do best, Andros. Make them our friends." Grinning, he turned to Malfoy. "Make sure you make the necessary introductions for him."

"I shall, my Lord," Malfoy said, bowing.

"Very well. Go, and do not fail." Voldemort gestured to Wormtail, who handed Malfoy and Gallowbraid the Felwing Skull. They touched it, and in a flash of light they were back before the fire in Voldemort's chamber.

Gallowbraid said, "That was...quite interesting."

"Indeed. Exciting as well, wouldn't you agree? They are even conducting experiments on animals, just to see what we might come up with." Malfoy adjusted the collar of his robes, smiling in satisfaction. "With such a force assembled, the Dark Lord's victory is all but assured. Still, there's a lot left to do. There is a room nearby where we may Disapparate." He gestured to the double doors. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Of course," said Gallowbraid. As they left the chamber, Malfoy said, "Well then, what do you have in mind for this person you mentioned? I can provide you with manpower, if need be."

"He's not the type easily surprised or fooled, I'm afraid," replied Gallowbraid. "I shall assess the situation first. I'll know what I'll need soon enough." He grinned. It had been a long time since he felt this keen, savage thrill, this anticipation one has only for his favorite game.

"It will give me distinct pleasure to finally destroy Alastor Moody."

After they had left, Voldemort remained by the cage, staring into the featureless eyes of his creation. Wormtail eventually worked up enough courage to come closer.

"My Lord," he said, "if I may speak my mind?"

"What is it?"

"Please forgive me, but I do not think it wise to trust someone like Gallowbraid with our secrets. He must certainly bear a grudge against you. What if he betrays us to our enemies? What if he changes sides?"

Again that humorless grin. "You tell me nothing I have not considered, Wormtail. Do you take me for an imbecile?"

"Of course not, my Lord! I did not mean to imply—"

"Enough. I know Gallowbraid's heart as clearly as my own. I have a guarantee against his betrayal. He will not turn on us."

"Why not, my Lord?"

"Let us just say I have him by the neck, Wormtail. As such, he is useful to me—you may content yourself with that. He remains the first of my three great servants."

Wormtail blinked. "Three, my Lord?"

"Yes. Gallowbraid, the first, goes to Britain to sow discord in the wizarding world. By the time they find him out it will be far too late. The second hides at this very moment in Hogwarts. Like a parasite killing a lion from within, my servant will bring that insipid old man and his school to ruin. And the last is here, in this very cage."

He slowly reached his arm into the cage, beckoning.

"Come forward, Michael Dunn. Come to me."

The beast sniffed the air, its mandibles clicking rapidly.

"Come, my loyal pet. Your hatred is potent but unfocused, a flashfire on a waterless plain. But I shall give it purpose. I shall give it aim. After my servants have fulfilled their tasks, you shall fulfill yours."

It crept forward and lay before Voldemort, its face turned up at his hand. Voldemort's sanguine eyes locked with its moonlit ones. He raised his arm high over its head, then his other hand snaked forth, bearing a shiny knife. He cut his right arm at the wrist. Blood flowed, dark red in the torchlight.

"Taste this blood, my child," he hissed. "A little wine to warm your guts. Let its scent fester in your mind until you can think of nothing else. When I set you free, you will not rest until you have tasted it again. Until you have drawn it from the other who bears it."

The blood flowed down his bone-white skin and dripped into the creature's waiting mouth.

"That's it, my Doom Hound. Savor this sweet draught. When the time comes, hunt him down. Bring him to me, dead or alive. Bring me the one who dared stand in my way. Bring me Harry Potter!"

The Doom Hound, so named, drank down the blood, then doubled over as if in agony. It growled and snapped, mandibles working as it writhed on the cold stone floor. Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. His shrill laughter carried throughout the cavern, and it seemed as if every shadow there was laughing with him.

_To be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII: Bloodhound and Caracal**

Harry woke to the gentle swaying of the carriage and to a dull ache on his forehead. He moaned, touching his fingers to his scar. It did not hurt so much, not like the flaring pain he had sometimes felt over the past year, but it was nevertheless persistent. He rubbed at it for a moment, still half-asleep, then remembered what had happened and where he was.

He forced a blank look on his face as he glanced up at the person sitting across from him in the carriage. Mad-Eye Moody was wordlessly cracking open some chestnuts from a bag on his lap. They had exchanged no more than dozen words since yesterday, something Harry found oddly reassuring. Barty Crouch Jr. had been kind and accommodating to him once, only to try and kill him in the end. This Moody, brusque and uncommunicative, suited him just fine.

Beside the old man sat a large golden aerial-like object Harry had seen before—one of the Auror's Dark Detectors. Harry found this odd. The old man apparently did not have any sort of luggage with him—how had he been carrying this device?

Moody's magical eye, as always, was darting watchfully from place to place, but his real eye had been giving him a sidelong glance.

"You all right?" he asked. His voice was as rough as the carriage wheels grinding into the gravel path.

"I'm fine," Harry said.

Moody grunted as if he had expected this answer, then said, "Potter, if you have strange dreams during our journey, any at all, I want you to let me know, as you have with Professor Dumbledore. Information on Voldemort's movements will come in handy, not to mention it might save our lives."

"All right," said Harry, though he did not feel all right with that. What the old man said made good sense, but Harry was not about to share with Moody every dream he just had.

_(Not if it involved Ginny_.)

Harry bit his lip, trying not to think about her.

Truth to be told, the pain on his forehead was already vanishing. And even if it wasn't, there wouldn't be anything to talk about. As usual there had been only deep darkness. Well, there was one thing he could recall, and it was hardly worth mentioning. Just a strange, sharp clicking sound.

Harry leaned back and rubbed his eyes. They had been traveling for two days now. Moody had been using circuitous back roads in and around the Forbidden Forest. They had not used a black Hogwarts carriage, but an ancient, rickety hold-over from the Victorian period. Its constant swaying, even on flat roads, caused Harry to nod off several times during the journey.

Moody turned to stare out the window, and for want of anything to do, Harry looked out as well. The morning sun filtered through the forest canopy, welcomed by the chirping of hidden birds. It was already too late for mist and still too early for it to be warm. Harry had hoped they would pass a sign or familiar landmark, but only trees and tall grass marked their path. Maybe they weren't using a main road?

"Where are we going?" Harry asked. It was about time he got an answer.

He saw Moody twitch. He looked sour—that is, from what Harry could discern of his face, more sour than usual.

"We're meeting up with the other half of your bodyguard retinue. Lives 'round these parts."

_That's right_, thought Harry. _What was his name again? Daniel Oaks, that's it._ Harry was about to ask another question, but the whinnying of the horseless carriage cut him off.

"Finally," Moody grumbled as they came to a halt. Putting on his hat, he threw the carriage door open, letting sunlight in. Harry got up to go but Moody stopped him.

"No," he said. "Whenever getting off a vehicle, the bodyguard always goes first. Then he signals for you to follow after he's checked everything out. Remember that." Harry sat back as Moody picked up the Dark Detector beside him and got off. He took a few paces forward, turning his eye this way and that. Finally, he signaled for Harry to come down.

They had stopped on top of a rise. Further on the path wound down to a small village surrounded by forested hills. A sign to their left read 'Evensdale'.

"So," asked Harry as he scanned the distant rooftops, "where would his house be?"

"He doesn't live _in_ the town—that's some comfort for the folks here. We'll find him through there." He indicated a narrow grassy path with his staff. "Now hang on a moment and let me put this thing away."

Moody put down his Dark Detector, reached into his coat and took out a wooden trunk so tiny it fit snugly into his palm. He tossed it onto the grass before him. Even before it hit the ground, the trunk swelled to fifty times its original size, landing with a heavy _thump_. It looked exceptionally strong—its edges were lined with bolted steel and the lid had been fitted with seven different keyholes. Harry recognized it as the same chest he saw in Moody's office. An image raced back to mind—that of Moody, Stunned and deathly pale, a prisoner in the trunk's seventh compartment.

"Like it, do you?" Moody asked, noticing Harry's interest. "It's my war trunk. Built it myself about a decade back." The words would've carried a hint of pride, but Moody's expression was dour. Perhaps, thought Harry, he'd been thinking the same thing I was.

"I keep everything I need in here," Moody went on, "Dark Detectors go into the first compartment." He spoke in a low, commanding voice. "_One._"

The lid sprang open, revealing more devices inside. As with most magical containers Harry had seen, the inside of the trunk was more spacious than the box's dimensions allowed for.

Moody limped over, gently lowered his Dark Detector into a space reserved for it, and secured it with leather straps. He closed the lid and said, "In the second compartment I keep stuff I need when I'm traveling." He spoke again in a stern tone, "_Two_."

The lid opened once more, revealing, among other things, a rolled-up sleeping bag, several pots and pans, and half a dozen flasks of water. It looked like soldier's survival kit.

Moody reached down and started rummaging through the contents. "Here we are," he said, pulling out a large metal disc.

Harry stared at it. "Is that a shield?"

"Yeah," Moody replied, "got it from a German friend." He pointed to the grassy path again. "We've to walk a bit further that way. Road's uneven, so this leg of mine's apt to slow us down. You won't mind if I rode, will you?"

"Er, no, I guess," said Harry.

"Good." Moody tossed the shield onto the ground. With a muttered word he shrunk the chest back down to its original size and tucked it into his coat. "All right," he said, "let's get going." He hobbled onto the shield. It then rose a foot off the ground and began drifting forward as easily as a leaf on a river.

"Well?" Moody said, looking back at the bewildered Harry. "We haven't all day."

Harry mentally shook himself and followed Moody down the road, which meandered its way into the forest.

After many hours sitting in a cramped carriage, Harry found the stroll enjoyable. The breeze was light and cool against his cheek. Autumn had come here like a passing parade; every tree was aflame with auburn and gold, and a crunching, multi-colored carpet covered their way through the forest. Squirrels scampered up on the high branches, gazing curiously down at the intruders. Barely just visible through the canopy of leaves, an arrowhead of ducks steadily pointed south.

After a few minutes of walking, they came upon a crude wooden sign pounded into the grass. It read:

_If you can read this,_

_YOU'RE TRESSPASSING! GET LOST!_

_By order of_

_THE CARACAL_

Beneath the name was a crude painting of a skull rudely sticking out a tongue. Instead of crossbones, behind the skull were a pair of black and white wands.

Harry stared as they passed it, then asked, "Do you know him?"

Moody turned both eyes on him.

"I...I was asking if you know him. Daniel, that is."

"What's it to you?"

"Well…" Harry paused, a bit miffed at the rudeness. He was entrusting his life to these two men, so he had to know more about them, even just a little.

"I'm curious, that's all," he said instead.

Moody grunted and faced forward. "Yeah, I know him, though I bloody wish I didn't."

Harry blinked. "Oh." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Is he a member of, um…you know."

"What?"

"The Order of…"

"Hush, boy!" Moody hissed, whirling about. "Don't you talk so openly about it. Best you keep your mind on more important matters." He turned back, then muttered over his shoulder, "Mind you, he has absolutely no part of it. We're not that desperate for members."

Further on was a clearing and another sign. This time Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It read:

_GO AWAY! DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU!_

_And that goes double for smelly old bats_

_who_ _have cue balls for eyes_

"Buffoon," Moody grunted as he swept past the sign.

"Why does he live out here instead of in town?" asked Harry.

"Because he's hiding from the Ministry!" Moody growled. "As he very well should be!"

"Hiding? What's he in hiding for?"

"He's a law-breaker, that's why! There, I won't sugarcoat it. If the Ministry finds out he owns a wand, there'll be in a whole mess of trouble! I should have had my head checked for agreeing to do this! Not worth all this—even if he _is_ a Duomancer!"

"A what?" asked Harry, but the old man did not reply. He was looking up the low hill before them, at the top of which was another sign. It read:

_Well, since you're so eager to see me—_

_EGGS for Sale,_

_3 Knuts each_

_30 Knuts a dozen_

From the hill the road meandered to small wooden house at the edge of the clearing.

"Well, here we are," said Moody as he dismounted from his shield. As he took out his trunk again to put the shield away, he paused and said, "One thing, before we go talk to him."

"What is it?"

Moody kept his eyes steadily on the cottage. His voice was oddly low. "…Don't ever mention Hogwarts to him. If the topic comes up, feign disinterest."

"Why?"

Moody looked at him impatiently, as if the answer were obvious. "'Cause he doesn't want to hear about it." He finished packing, then turned back to him.

"Don't tell him who you really are either. Let me do most of the talking. The less he knows about this mission, the less likely for him to screw things up!" And he hobbled towards the shack. Completely bemused, Harry followed.

The shack looked haphazardly built, with wooden boards criss-crossing themselves on the roof and a few more lashed to the walls for good measure. Harry couldn't tell for sure, but the house even seemed to be tilting to one side. Surrounding it was a wooden fence covered from top to bottom by a wire mesh. Through the mesh Harry spied the white bodies of chickens, clucking and scratching the ground for food. In the middle of the fence, a small gate was latched shut. Beside the gate stood a tall pole. Harry looked up and saw several metal arrows racked up along its length, looking like many weather vanes strung together. The arrows were all blank, except for three. One had the word 'BUSINESS' written in bright yellow. Beneath that, another arrow read 'TROUBLE' in deep fiery letters. The very last arrow pole read 'MOODY' in large, letters of drab brown.

At the moment, all three arrows were pointing at them.

Moody looked up at the signs, then at the front door.

"Best get this over with then," he said, and shouted, "Danny! If you're in there, get on out here! You've someone to meet!"

The chickens scattered away from Moody, but nothing else moved. He drew a deep breath and boomed—

"DANNY, GETCHER LAZY ARSE OUT OF BED THIS INSTANT! WE'VE GOT WORK TO DO, YOU MILKSOP!"

Harry stared at Moody in shock, but he had barely enough time to puzzle over this behavior when another voice erupted from the house—

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MILKSOP, YOU ASININE OLD GOAT! I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME—SHUT UP ALREADY!"

Harry's eyes darted to the shack's entrance as the door was thrown open, shaking the little house. "Well, this is really something!" the young man said, wiping his hands on a small towel as he stalked forward. "You were supposed to be coming _later this afternoon_. Change of plans, or are you making a hobby out of pissing people off?"

He appeared to be in his early twenties, lanky and quite tall—his head had brushed the top of the doorframe as he walked through it. His corn-colored hair was spiky and a bit uneven, as if he had tried to cut it himself and didn't quite do a thorough job. Sharp eyebrows floated over his deep gray eyes. He wore an off-white shirt and a loose pair of brown trousers. There was still a bit of shaving cream on his left cheek.

Moody growled, "'It is best to always arrive prematurely so as not to be anticipated by the enemy'—one of the fundamentals of the Auror's Way."

The young man stopped at the gate, looking about ready to hurl the towel in Moody's face. "Oh, put a cork in it! You came early to get some breakfast, is all!"

"You'd think that now, wouldn't you," Moody retorted.

"Ah, excuse me," said Harry.

Both pairs of eyes turned to him. Daniel gave a lopsided grin. "So, you're our precious cargo." He extended one large hand, which Harry reluctantly accepted.

Moody sighed and said, "Robert, this is my godson Daniel. Danny, meet—"

"Robert," Harry finished for him, "Robert Jerome Smith. Nice to meet you."

"Hey, great to meet you too," Danny vigorously shook hands, but his smile seemed to falter when his eyes fell upon the Gryffindor crest on Harry's robes.

Moody said to Harry, "Well, now that that's settled, let's go in and have some breakfast."

"Hold it!" cried Danny, scowling at the old man. "Thought you could pull a fast one, didn't you."

"If you got any more of that slop you're cooking, I suggest you share it," Moody replied. "There's a task that needs doing and we need to keep up our strength."

"Ah, yes, the fifth Article of the 'Auror's Way', isn't it? 'Never start on an empty stomach.'" Danny snorted and started back to his house.

"He's always like this," Moody explained as he ushered Harry through the gate. "Always. Pay no attention." Harry followed the young man towards the entrance, taking care not to step on anything unpleasant. The chickens ignored them and went about scrounging for food.

"If you don't mind my asking," Moody said from behind them, "what possessed you to start a poultry farm?"

"Well, I have to have some other form of financing," said Danny, running a hand through his hair. "I sell some eggs whenever I go to town. Just enough to keep me alive when the work's dry. Besides, my roommate likes 'em."

Moody's mouth fell open and his magical eye whizzed from side to side. "There's someone else here?"

"Like I said, my roommate." Danny cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Oi! Napoleon! Come on out here for a minute! We've got guests!"

Moody grabbed his sleeve. "You numbskull!" he hissed. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't alone! This mission's supposed to be a blasted secret!"

"Don't worry about Nap, he's safe. Oi! Nap! Where are—"

"Shut up!" Moody said, angrily shaking him. "Send him away this instant! You—"

Harry gave a startled cry and leaped backwards as the patch of soil he had been standing on began to crumble beneath his feet. Moody instantly spun around, wand in hand. They all watched as a mound of soil began to rise from the ground.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

The mound stopped rising, and a twitching, whiskery snout poked out of the soil. It sniffed the air for a minute, then vanished.

"Nap!" shouted Danny. "Get out here right now!"

The creature popped completely out of the hole, its shiny black eyes peering curiously up at Harry.

"It's—a niffler?!" Harry stared down at the chubby little animal, which was wagging its tail so hard its entire backside swayed. As Harry bent down to look at it, the nifflersuddenly pounced onto his arms. Harry stumbled backwards as it stuck its nose at his shiny watch.

"NAP!" roared Danny, grabbing the niffler and holding him at arm's length. "How many times have I told you NOT to dig around the house?! Shame on you! After all those lessons!" He began shaking the animal around like a cat punishing its kitten.

"Er, don't be too harsh on him," said Harry, brushing the soil from his robes.

Danny finished shaking Nap and set him down. The niffler walked around in circles for a minute, his little eyes boggling about.

"Sorry about that," Danny said to them. "He sometimes forgets his training when he's excited."

Moody put his wand away. "Where in the name of the godland did you get a niffler?"

"I made a wager with a goblin prospector who was in town last spring. He lost, of course, and took off before I came to collect. Left this little guy behind. So I took him instead."

"Well, it's against the law to own this critter!" said Moody. "They're very destructive to property!"

"Whose property, aside from mine? I live in the bloody forest! Besides which, I've trained him out of digging near my home." Danny grinned at Harry. "'Course, I had to rebuild my house three times in the process, but I did it!"

Nap had stopped circling about and was sniffing at Moody's shoes. Not finding anything shiny on him, he padded over to Harry again. As Harry bent down for a closer look, Nap immediately stuck his snout at his wristwatch.

"Guess he likes you," said Danny. "But then, he likes everybody. Makes a very poor watchdog, he does. Anyway, come on in. Guess I'll just have to make breakfast for four."

Harry and Moody followed him into the house, but then he bustled back outside and grabbed Nap, who was about to waddle in.

"NOT you. Not until you cover up that mess you made in our yard and pour the hens some water. Otherwise, no breakfast."

The niffler looked up at him, blinking its dark, wide eyes.

"Forget it, Nap. That won't save you this time."

Nap's ears drooped as Danny set him down. He waddled back into the yard.

Inside, Danny made them sit down while he finished shaving. Harry and Moody each took a seat at the table, which was so small Harry could reach each side without stretching.

Harry studied his surroundings. Danny's home was cramped with bric-a-brac and looked more like a curiosity shop than a house. The sweet scent of pine cones (several were strung up on a nearby clothesline) filled the air. To their left, directly beside a window, a slab of wood (which apparently had been a table once) hung a foot from the floor, neatly suspended from the ceiling by four stout ropes. On it was a single lumpy mattress and two feather cushions. Near this improvised bed were several stacks of magical tomes—_Famous Wizard Duels And Those Who Survived Them_ by Justa Hasbin. _Dodging Curses is Easy _by R. Yewdaff. _Stay Alert! _by Justin Case. There were more titles stacked on the shelves. _Warringden'sArt of Wand Shielding_. _A Child's Guide to the Undead. The Wandering Swordsman. Into the West._

The place didn't lack for magical items one would expect to see in a wizarding home, but oddly enough there were also Muggle tools scattered throughout the house. A fat metal stove sat in the furthest corner, its slender pipe rising up to a hole in the ceiling. An assortment of cooking utensils lay on the tiny kitchen counter, including a small white egg timer. A wind-up alarm clock sat on the desk next to the bed, and through the window Harry could see a hatchet hacked onto a low tree stump.

Moody was looking about as well. "This is it? All those letters with you bragging about your own place, it was all just one room?"

Danny carefully scraped a safety razor across his chin, gazing into a mirror. "I'll have you know that while this place is small, it's very space-efficient. Right now, you're sitting in the dining room. When we're through with breakfast, it'll be the living room. At night it can be a guest chamber."

"If you say this doubles as the loo, I'll be staying somewhere else."

"No, the loo would be anywhere as long as it's forty yards from here." Danny wiped off the last of the cream on his face and washed his hand from a bucket. "There, all done!" He hurried over to a cabinet and began rooting about. "Where's that pan? Ah…" He stomped on the floor and a frying pan hurtled into the air. Danny caught it easily and set it down on the stove.

Within minutes, he had a kettle whistling and a pan crackling with oil. Harry had forgotten how hungry he'd gotten. He straightened up in his chair as Danny turned around, steel plate in hand.

"Here we go," he said, plunking it down on the table. Moody simply stared at it.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's an egg," replied Danny. "Specifically, a fried one."

"I know that! All you got's eggs? What about bread? Cereal? _Meat_?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, the buffet table just closed." Daniel turned to Harry. "How would you like your eggs? Fried? Scrambled? Soft or hard-boiled? I do all kinds."

"Fried would be just fine," Harry replied.

Mood was still scowling. "You're telling me you can't spare a chicken or two from the dozens you have, just for a decent meal?"

"That is precisely what I'm telling you," Danny replied. "I DO NOT eat my business partners. Now, are you going to tell me how you like your eggs or shall I give them to you_raw_?"

"Scrambled," grumbled Moody. "And get me three."

"That's better." And Danny turned back to the stove and resumed cooking.

"Stingy whelp," muttered the old man. "Hasn't changed a bit, I see."

Just then, a chorus of clucking was heard from outside. Harry turned just in time to see a flock of chickens run past the window, with Nap closing in from behind.

Daniel served them their eggs and included a pot of piping hot coffee. Then he asked, "Since we'll be leaving in a few hours, why don't you tell me what we'll be doing for the next two weeks?"

Moody swallowed a piece of egg and said, "How much did Dumbledore tell you?"

"Only that I'll be acting as bodyguard for someone pretty important, and that we'll be going up north to a little Muggle town called Hillsdale. He had me check the place out and manually set the Portkey he provided. It's waiting for us right outside."

"What's the place like?"

Daniel slowly put his mug down. "I think you'd better take a look at it."

"What? Trouble?"

"Maybe. At least, there _had_ been trouble. Like I said, you'd better take a look. That's your department after all, not mine. What I want to know is, what'll _you_ be doing?" He asked, turning to Harry. "You don't seem the type to take a vacation there."

Moody said, "Robert here will be looking for something—"

"Why don't you eat for a while and let _him_ do the talking."

"It's true," said Harry, straightening up. "I _am_ going there to look for something." He pushed his plate aside. Being here had been, well, interesting, but did not want to linger. He had a long road ahead of him. "I'm looking for a jewel that belonged to my family. It's hidden in that town, and it's really important that I find it."

"Going treasure hunting, ay?" Daniel grinned and took a sip of coffee. "Sounds like a good time."

"We'll be working, Danny, not going sightseeing," Moody growled. "So you better keep—"

"Constant vigilance, yeah, I know. I already have a subscription, thanks."

Moody glared at him. "'Course you do, seeing how well prepared you were to receive visitors in the morning!"

Daniel slammed his mug down onto the table. "What I didn't expect was a visitor who expected to be treated like royalty!"

"Hah! You can hardly afford a peasant's pittance, since you're unemployed!"

"I _do_ have a job!"

"Ah yes, the local egg salesman!"

"So, what is it you really do?" Harry asked, hoping to prevent another argument.

"Me?" Danny drew himself up proudly. "I'm what you call a professional solver of people's problems."

"Ah, I see," Moody cut in. "A hired thug, a hooligan, a stooge, a—"

"Private detective!" Danny retorted. "And I don't remember asking for your opinion!"

And they carried on and on. At some point, dawned on Harry that the rudeness and arguments between these two were more the rule rather than the exception. And that the most prudent thing was to not get caught in between.

A distraction came some minutes later as Nap, having finally finished herding the chickens, shuffled through the open door. He hefted himself onto the last empty chair, set his paws on the table, and wagged his tail expectantly.

"You let him eat in here?" Moody asked, eyeing him.

"Why not?" said Danny, all smiles again. "He's got better table manners than most people." He put a saucer with three poached eggs in front of Nap and gave him a pat on the head. "He only eats poached," he explained to Harry.

"Never mind," said Moody. "There's still one thing I'd like to know. How did Dumbledore convince you to help out?"

Daniel wiped his mouth and leaned back on his chair. "Oh, he didn't quite convince me the first time. When he asked me, I said I was busy at the moment and that I'd think about it. He was persistent, so I said I'd consider it if he sweetened the deal."

Moody's eyes bulged at these words. "You're not saying…?"

Harry needed no further clue to figure out what was coming. He slipped out of his chair and slowly made for the door.

Danny was saying, "'How much?' he asked me. So I said, since I liked him, I'd give him twenty-percent off from the going rate."

"You peddled your skills...you asked the greatest wizard of our age..._for money_?"

Harry eased the door open and let himself out. He was about to close it when he heard a faint scratching noise. Looking down, he saw Nap looking up at him with his meal in his mouth. In perfect understanding, Harry stepped aside to let the niffler out with him.

"...And it all came down to bodyguard duty for only 300 Galleons. Not a bad deal, ay?"

"_Threehundred_—!" Moody's face had gone an explosive red, his lips forming so many invectives he appeared to be choking on them.

Daniel looked at him quizzically. "You reckon I should've upped the discount?"

By then, Harry had shut the door and heard nothing more.

Harry leaned on the fence surrounding the little shack, looking out into the surrounding forest. Before that he had been watching Nap finish his eggs, but moments after doing so the little animal curled up onto the grass and fell asleep.

It was half an hour later when Moody lurched out of the shack. "I'll be checking out the surrounding area," he said to Harry. "Get some sleep if you like, but don't you go wandering about. We're by no means safe here."

"All right," said Harry.

With a curt nod, Moody hobbled to the front gate and walked towards the forest. A minute later, the door opened and this time Daniel stepped out.

"I thought he'd never shut up," he said, grinning at Harry. "Some piece of work, isn't he? I thought it a joke when they said he was going to retire. He's _never_ going to retire, the way he's so wound up all the time."

He strode up to the henhouse and opened the tiny screen door to free his chickens. "Right. Robert, do me a favor and knock over that sack of chicken feed next to you."

Harry turned to look at the tied sack lying against the fence post. "Just overturn it?"

"Yeah. Make sure it spills." Danny knocked over a sack and chicken feed came tumbling out. The chickens immediately flocked over and started pecking away. Mentally shrugging, Harry untied the sack and pushed it over, spilling its contents.

"There," said Daniel, "that'll keep them till I get back."

They were silent for a time as Daniel straightened up his lawn, until Harry thought of something to say. "So, why do you live out here?"

Daniel shooed the lone rooster off the roof of the coop, and said, "Many reasons. I like it here, for one. Well, that might be the whole reason. Sometimes living with people can be such a pain, you know? Out here you don't have any of them; no nosy neighbors, no bloody salesmen to bother you in the mornings, no nosy git to give you unwanted advice about your own business. I've got my own job and my own house. I've always wanted to live like this...Oh, for the love of...!" Daniel glared upwards.

Harry followed his gaze in alarm. "What? What is it?"

One of the arrows now had the word 'Weasel' written in bold, red letters, and was pointing to their left. In one swift motion, Daniel drew his wand from his belt and fired a curse at the grass outside his lawn. The shot rang throughout the forest. Something long, brown, and apparently with its tail on fire, darted out of the grass and into the safety of the trees.

"Damn weasel never lets up on my chickens," said Daniel, "Maybe that'll convince him to go into early hibernation. I'll have Nap keep an eye out once we're gone."

"How did you do that?" Harry asked, amazed.

"Do what?" Daniel said, sheathing his wand.

"Cast a curse without saying anything?"

"Oh. Never heard of 'mindcasting', Robert?"

"'Mindcasting?'"

"A wizard can mindcast a spell he's already an expert in using—all he has to do is say the words in his head while executing the wand motions. Of course, that takes years of practice. Haven't you seen a really good wizard move stuff around with just his wand? I bet Dumbledore does that a lot."

Harry recalled the time Dumbledore moved aside the tables of the Great Hall with a simple wave of his wand. "Yeah, now that you mention it, I have seen him do it."

"It's quite a status symbol, knowing how to mindcast spells. Plus, one can cast a lot faster that way. A proper dualist should know how to mindcast at least five spells, including the Wandshield. Grand Duelists—the kind that make the history books—they know at least twenty. I know ten myself."

"You must do a lot of dueling in your line of work, then."

"A 'lot' of dueling?" Daniel laughed as he leaned against his fence. "All the time, Robert, all the time. But I'm all right with that, because dueling's my life. That's what I was born to do. It's probably the only thing Moody and I have in common: we love to fight."

"He called you something, while we were on the road here..."

"Moody calls me enough names to fill the devil's dictionary."

"I didn't mean it like that. He called you a Duomancer."

"Ohhhhh, yeah, that's right." Noticing Harry's bemused expression, he said, "What, never heard of them? Well, let me show you. You're right-handed, right? Take out your wand and cast any spell with it using your left hand."

Curious, Harry took out his wand and changed grips. It was something he'd never tried before. He was about to cast a spell when Daniel quickly added, "Pick something simple. It's safer that way."

Harry nodded and pointed his wand at nearby twig. He hesitated. It suddenly felt awkward; the wand felt heavier, unsteady. Nonetheless, he gave it a try.

"_Accio twig!"_

To his surprise, the twig only quivered a little, then lay still. Daniel said, "Lucky enough. At least it didn't explode." With his left hand he drew the wand from his belt and pointed. "_Accio_ _twig_." It shot up from the ground into his open palm.

Harry put his arm down. "Why can't I do it? Why can't I use _this_ hand?"

"You were born right-handed, that's why. Your right arm's your wand arm—that's where the magic flows. Casting spells with your dumb hand is as hard as writing with it."

"But I can train to use my left, can't I? Right-handed people can learn to write with their left."

"So I've heard. You can, but it's tricky, and I hear the results aren't anything to crow about even after years of practice." He twirled the twig in between his fingers, then let it drop. "And even if someone does get it right, there's still one thing he can't possibly do."

"What's that?"

Daniel smiled. "Lend me your wand for a bit."

Reluctantly, Harry handed it to him. Daniel received it with one hand, drew his own with the other, and turned to a boulder some distance away from the fence. "Stand back," he said.

"What're you going to do?" asked Harry.

Daniel answered the question quickly enough. Pointing both wands at the rock, he shouted, "_Diffindo!_"

Twin bolts of serrated lightning shot out of the wands and struck the boulder with a loud report. Harry immediately covered his face with his cloak. When he looked out again, the rock had burst into twenty smoking pieces.

"That's...that's amazing!" he said.

"The same spell at the same time, with a wand in each hand," Daniel tossed Harry's wand back to him and sheathed his own. "Comes in real handy in duels. Some wizards, you know, aren't very cooperative when you ask for information. Sometimes they get a bit difficult. Fortunately, most don't know how to block two spells at once.

"By the way—I'd like ask you something, Robert, if you don't mind."

"Yes?"

"Why do you reckon this trip may be dangerous? I mean, Dumbledore's stressed that this has to be a secret. I don't question his reasons for helping you; he's just being his old charitable self, I'm sure. But why did he call on Moody to go with you? Granted he's a beaten old horse, he's still a cut above those flatfoots from the Ministry. So this has to be something serious. Care to fill me in, then?"

Harry stared at him for a minute. Part of him did want to tell Daniel who he was and what was going on—after all, they _were_ going to be working together for two weeks. But a significant part of him, the part of him that was tired of being the celebrity people gawked and whispered about, wanted to keep silent. Daniel had been open and friendly and treated him just like any other person, something Harry appreciated. He did not want that to change. He had this opportunity to be someone else; shouldn't he play the part to the hilt? Besides, Moody had warned him not reveal his identity to Daniel.

So he said, "It..it's a bit hard to talk about, really…"

"Try me."

"My Mum and Dad had this long-standing feud with a…a distant relative. He's an evil wizard, and he wanted something from them—maybe their money, or to get revenge, I'm not sure. Nobody could seem to do anything about him, however. He has it out for me too. And I think if he finds out I'm off to get my grandmother's jewel, he might try to stop me, or get the jewel for himself."

"What d'you need this jewel for?"

Harry thought fast. "Dumbledore said it has some magical properties. My Mum had talked to him about it once. He says it might be able to protect me, that it had charms that were attuned to my bloodline, so it would keep me safe from harm."

Daniel nodded, brows furrowed. Then he said, "You mention your parents in the past tense."

Harry turned his eyes away and didn't answer.

Daniel went on, "Does Moody know about them? Your folks?"

Harry shook his head.

"Yeah, okay." Daniel turned away, as if to look at something interesting on the wall of his house. "So, you're an orphan."

"…Yeah."

The other boy was silent for some time. Harry thought he lost interest, but then he turned around and smiled. "Don't worry. We'll keep this between us, all right?"

Harry returned the smile, though his was smaller and more subdued. "Right. Thanks, Daniel."

"Call me Danny."

"Danny. Okay, thanks."

Danny slapped his shoulder. "Well, why don't you go back inside and take a nap. When you wake up, look in the drawer beside the bed. You'll find some Muggle clothing for disguises. Try some on and see what fits you."

"I will. Thanks again."

"We're leaving at three o'clock—don't forget." Danny opened his gate and strode out. Curious, Harry called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Out for some target practice! See you later!" He drew out his wand and hurled it high into the air as he walked. The shiny black rod spun rapidly as it rose and plummeted, but Daniel caught it behind his back without so much as a glance.

Inside, Harry washed up at the tiny sink and climbed onto the suspended bed, which he found to be more comfortable than it looked. Sleep came, but did not stay. He woke an hour later from dreams of floating dandelions and a sweet, familiar warmth in his hand. Outside he heard the distant noise of raised voices. As lunch was in doubt, he got up and reached for the cheese sandwich in his bag. After this simple meal he went back to sleep. He woke up again an hour later, sweating, scar itching and that faint _click-click_ of something that had been seemingly close by. There was nothing there. After this he simply laid back, fingers laced behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

Finally, at around two o'clock, he gave up trying to rest and got out of bed. He opened the first drawer of the cabinet nearby and found the clothes Danny mentioned. It took some time for him to figure out what to wear; it looked as if Danny had gone into a yard sale and picked out whatever caught his eye, regardless of appropriateness. Harry had to wade through several slacks, flannel sweatshirts, corduroy overalls, dozens of mismatched socks and other articles before settling for a plain purple shirt and a denim jacket and jeans. He neatly folded his Hogwarts robes and, after hesitating a bit, put it in the bottom drawer.

He glanced at his own hand as he drew back, and became absorbed by the sight of it. His disguise had given him a completely different one—the skin was tan, the nails a deeper shade of pink, and there appeared to be more wrinkles on the knuckles. He flexed his fingers, deeply aware of stretching skin and muscle.

'Here I am,' thought Harry, looking again at the Gryffindor crest, then back to his open hand. 'Here I am, now, by my own choice.'

For the first time, he allowed himself to think about turning back. There were other ways to go, weren't there? Who would blame him if turned around right now and went back to Hogwarts? Who would want him to risk his life out there? Sirius, Remus, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, they'd all be happy to see him return...

These were all, of course, wistful, useless thoughts. They passed through his mind like the dandelions of his dreams and were soon gone.

_You can't turn back_, said a voice he had heard so often, in the darkest part of the night.

_You can't turn back. You wanted to be here, didn't you? For a whole year you felt as if you were only half-alive, waiting until the waiting was almost a burning thirst in you. For a whole year you watchedVoldemort torture and kill at his leisure, knowing that he had you, your stupidity, your naiveté, to thank for his return to the world. For a whole year you'd lay your head on your pillow wondering if the nightmares would come for you again, and when they did you'd wake up, angry and afraid and crying and needing to do something—anything at all—to stop to him._

_So don't try to fool yourself. You want to do this. Go on. Strike a blow against the Dark Mark. Turn the tables on the Dark Lord. If you make it, Voldemort will never know what hit him._

_Then you will have peace._

'Yes, that's why I'm doing this. For peace.'

"Goodbye for now," he whispered as he looked at the Gryffindor crest. Then he slid the drawer shut.

Danny came in as Harry finished making the bed. "All right, Robert? Go on ahead outside. I'll be with you in a bit."

Harry found Moody standing by the gate, pipe in hand. He was already dressed in Muggle clothing—a heavy brown overcoat, dark shirt and pants, and a large leather belt. He had somehow been able to fit a heavy boot over his clawed peg-leg, and it looked almost normal. He looked Harry over, and nodded in approval.

"Now if we can get just going already," he muttered, tapping ashes from the pipe. "Time's a-wastin'."

Danny came out fifteen minutes later, dressed in a deep blue jacket and pants and a black and white striped scarf so long it stretched down to his knees. Slung over one shoulder was a crimson backpack. As he walked toward them, he was carefully adjusting the leather straps what resembled a Quidditch gauntlet around his left forearm. But before Harry could get a closer look, he pulled his jacket sleeve to cover it up.

At the gate, Danny picked up Nap, who was waiting for him by the footpath.

"Take care of yourself, Nap," he said. "I'll be gone for only two weeks, but I left enough food for you in the pantry.

"And I want you to behave! If I come back here and the house is leveled, you'll be really sorry, understand?"

The niffler licked Danny's cheek and gave low whine, as if to show how sorry he was to see the boy go. Danny ruffled his fur a bit longer, then set him down and approached Moody and Harry.

"We look like we're about to go to a costume party," said Danny, frowning.

"If it helps any," the old man replied, "I'll try not to be seen with you."

"Where's the Portkey?" asked Harry.

Danny opened the gate and stepped out. "This way."

They followed him around to the back of the house, where they stopped in front of the tree stump.

"Well, here it is," said Danny. He was looking down at the hatchet.

Moody scowled at it. "Couldn't you've picked something less obtrusive?"

"I'll take care of hiding it once we get across. Don't worry."

"Time-triggered, you say?"

"At precisely three o'clock, so get ready."

Harry checked his watch. It was 2:55. In less than five minutes, he realized, he was actually going through with it. His journey was really going to begin.

A noise to his left made him turn his head. Nap, ears drooped and paws braced on the fence, stared at them forlornly. He gave another low whine. Harry waved goodbye.

They waited. The waiting seemed interminable. Harry felt his insides shrinking in nervous anticipation. They would be on their own now. He had no idea what the other side of this Portkey might hold for him. Only that he had to see it through to the end.

"We can take two of them, you know," Moody was saying as he eyed the lawn. "Keep 'em in the cold box of my trunk so the meat won't spoil."

"For the last time," snapped Danny, "we won't be taking any of the chickens! Deal with it!"

At 2:57, Danny reached out and touched the handle. Moody grasped the axe head in one wizened hand, and Harry held onto the middle. They were all quiet.

2:59. Danny looked about and said, "Well, shouldn't we say something?"

"Like what?" muttered Moody.

"Some kind of cheer, or affirmation? Famous last words perhaps?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

"Exactly what _would_ you say in a time like this?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. Something about team work, or a wish for luck or something. We are a team now, after all. Anything's better than keeping our mouths shut. Well, Moody?"

"I can think of better things to do than flapping our gums," said Moody.

"I bet you could," replied Danny, "like stuff yourself, for instance." He turned to Harry. "How about you, Robert?"

Harry stared at the hatchet and thought of the journey ahead. "Here I am," he said. "Here I go."

And before anyone could say anything else, Harry felt a familiar sharp tug somewhere around his navel, followed by the feeling of being yanked through the air, and Danny's yard vanished.

_To be continued_

_Chapter VIII : __He knelt and put his hand on the stone, tracing each carefully cut letter…They were close, so close. Could they possibly find the Crystal_ _right now, and end this quest just as quickly as they had begun it? Was it possible that in a day's time he would be standing in Gryffindor_ _Tower_ _again?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Thank you to all who reviewed this fic so far. I love you all, and please spread the word. :)** **Chapter VIII: The Broken Angels**

He leaned towards the mirror and whispered, "Harry James Potter."

Again that tingling sensation, as if someone had drawn a feather over his skin. The image before him swam and shifted; his auburn hair turned dark once more, his blue eyes shimmered to green, and the lightning scar traced down the side of his forehead. He was Harry Potter again, at least for a few moments.

Harry was not fond of disobeying Dumbledore, but he had already spent four whole days in disguise. It felt too odd to wear a strange face, while staying in a strange town, in the company of strange men. Perhaps some part of him wanted to make sure he could still be himself after all this time.

But now he was beginning to regret looking at all. As Harry Potter he could belong nowhere else but in Hogwarts. He could not escape thinking about his true home, and what could be happening there now if he were not here at the Everglade Inn, Hillsdale, Who-Knows-Where-In-Britain. Could not help wondering if anyone had noticed any changes. If Ron and Hermione were doing all right. If they were keeping the homunculus out of trouble.

If Ginny still thought of him sometimes.

He pushed that last thought away to the corner of his mind. It would be back again later, as usual. But for now, he had things to do.

Harry turned away from the mirror and started to change out of his pajamas. Their mission today was simple: he and Danny had to look for information in the local archives, located near the town center. It hadn't been necessary to do this, but unforeseen complications, as he had discovered yesterday, could pile up very quickly.

The Portkey took them to a little meadow surrounded by a thin copse of trees, and Harry quickly noticed how much different this place was from the forest Danny where lived. No ducks flew across the sky, no animals scurried among the branches overhead. The wind had long bent the trees into odd shapes, and the air around them was colder, closer to winter.

"Well, what're you waiting for?" Moody said to Danny. "Hide the Portkey and make sure it stays hidden."

"No problem," replied the young man. He then hefted the hatchet over his shoulder, took aim, and hurled it up at the tree. His aim had been perfect; the hatchet struck one of the higher branches. Unfortunately, his throw had also been too strong; instead of simply attaching to the wood, the axe lopped off the branch, falling directly onto Moody's foot. The old man yelled curses so loudly that Harry thought it likely that everyone within ten miles had been alerted to their presence.

After they all calmed down, Danny led them out of the forest and towards a nearby hill. Moody started giving instructions.

"You two'll be heading into town now. Don't do anything suspicious or call too much attention to yourselves. But keep your eyes open. I'll be camping out here in the outskirts of town. This mug of mine catches too much attention, especially among Muggles." Harry recalled Moody's first appearance in Hogwarts and had to agree.

"You'll be doing most of the legwork," Moody went on, "so find a place to stay, like an inn. I'll keep an eye on the surroundings. If you have anything to report, meet me at the meadow after sunset. If anything goes wrong or if you get into trouble, send a signal with your wand and I'll Apparate to where you are. Do this only during emergencies, mind."

They made it up the hill and Danny pointed to the town some distance away. "Well, there she is. Thing of beauty."

They all stared at it for some moments. The wind whispered to itself amongst the tall grass on the hill, and far above them, a crow gave a half-starved cry at an empty sky.

Moody asked, "It was like this when you got here?"

"Absolutely," Danny replied, "and I swear I am not responsible for whatever happened here."

"You meet anyone?"

"One or two old timers. Skittered away when they saw a stranger."

To Harry, the entire town seemed to be teetering on the brink of winter. The windows of every house were closed, every door shut and probably bolted. Harry counted less than a dozen chimneys that had a thin ribbon of smoke rising out of them. Even the trees had apparently long abandoned hope and left their branches barren. _This _was his mother's hometown?

"I've change my mind," Moody said. "I'm coming along to have a look around." He pulled something out of his pocket. Harry turned to see him putting a black patch over his magical eye.

"Let's get moving." Moody pulled the brim of his hat lower over his face and lurched forward, Danny and Harry close behind him.

Things did not improve as they entered the town. The only things they met as they walked down the main avenue were a cold wind and a bustling line of dead leaves. One would expect to see someone tending their garden, or jogging down the sidewalk, or heading to market, but they saw not a soul. No children playing in the yard. No pets leashed to the porches.

More, it seemed as if the residents didn't _want _to come out. Broken fences were left untended, windows were dusty and unwashed. Many houses had chipped paint on their walls and loose shingles on their roof. Several houses, in fact, were vacant—boards were hammered onto the windows and doors and the front gates were under lock and chain.

Moody took out his small Foe-Glass and stared at it intently.

"Nothing," he muttered, "no sign of trouble at all."

_But where is everybody_? Harry wondered as he gazed up and down the street.

Danny soon led them to the town cemetery. It was located atop a flat hill, surrounded by a low stone wall with a rusty, unlocked gate. The churchyard itself looked a mess. Dried vines had overrun the tombs and grasses grew tall amongst the grey headstones and ornate crypts, turning the whole area into a papery brown jungle. To his right Harry saw something he found both comical and morbid: the white outstretched hand of a fallen statue poked out from a long tangle of vines, looking as if it were calling for help. Evidently the groundskeeper did not care at all about doing his job. If there was a groundskeeper, that is.

The three of them spent half an hour picking their way up and down the rows of tombstones, pulling aside grass and scraping off the moss and lichen that obscured the names.

"Place looks completely abandoned," said Moody, as he stared around with his magical eye. "For a year, maybe more."

"Moody," Danny called. "I think you better get a look at this."

Danny stood at the other side of the path, holding a clump of crushed vines in his hands and staring at the statue he had just uncovered. It was obviously that of an angel, its rain-stained wings folded behind its back and its weathered hands clasped together in prayer. It would have been serenely beautiful, except it had no head.

"What's this?" breathed Moody. He poked his staff on the grass next to the tomb and pushed some bits of stone—all that was left of the angel's head—onto the gravel path.

"There's more." Danny sidestepped to a nearby grave and yanked the vines off the angel above it. It, too, was missing its head. The statue beside it was similarly disfigured. As was the next. And the next.

"Someone's desecrated this place," whispered Harry. He didn't know why he whispered; he surely didn't mean to, but raising his voice in a place like this made him uncomfortable. He pushed away some grass near his feet and uncovered a stone cross lying on its side, broken into three pieces. A sudden chill crept into his skin. "Who'd do such a thing?"

Moody's eye whipped watchfully from one spot to another. After a time, he said, "We'll investigate that later. Right now, let's find what we're looking for. Stay close to me."

Trying to ignore the broken sculptures around them, they kept on searching the gravestones. Some of the inscriptions were more than a hundred years old, faded almost to nothing by constant weathering. Harry wondered if they would even find what they were looking for underneath this mess.

But they did. His grandmother's grave stood at the very center of one of the rows, hard to miss as it was strangely cleaner than most of its neighbors. To Harry's relief, no statue stood guard over it. Etched on the stone were these words:

_Leah Wellington Evans_

_1925 – 1986_

_May she rest eternally_

_in the gardens of Paradise_

They all stared down at it for a moment. Danny said, "So you reckon what you're looking for's in there?"

"That's what Dumbledore said," Harry replied. For a while now since they entered the churchyard, he had felt as if a little bird was hopping nervously about in his chest. Now it was frantically beating its wings against his ribcage. They were close, so close. Could they possibly find the Crystal right now, and end this quest just as quickly as they had begun it? Was it possible that in a day's time he would be standing in Gryffindor Tower again?

He knelt and put his hand on the stone, tracing each carefully cut letter. He wondered what sort of person she had been. And how she would have thought of him if they had ever met, if she would have doted on him the way he had often seen elderly people spoil their grandchildren.

Already, he was shrinking from the thought of robbing his grandmother's grave, especially of the thing she loved so much she had tried to take it with her. For a moment, he imagined her vengeful spirit swooping down from heaven to throttle her ungrateful grandson.

"Okay," said Danny slowly, "You want to start digging now or do we wait for sundown?"

"I don't know," Harry said. "This would be easier if only Nap were with us."

"Forget it! I'm not involving Nap in any sort of grave-robbery! We're in enough trouble as it is."

Harry shrugged. "I don't suppose any of you know any digging spells?"

No one answered. Finally, Danny sighed and said, "I'll go look for some shovels."

"Don't bother," Moody muttered

Danny turned to look at him. "What?"

"I said don't bother. We won't have to dig for anything." Moody's words were for Danny, but his gaze had been turned to Harry.

"It's not there."

The sound of footsteps near the door startled Harry out of his reverie. He quickly whispered, "Robert Jerome Smith." His appearance changed even as he turned on his heel to face the entrance.

The door cracked open and Danny popped his head in. The elder boy never bothered to knock; his tramping footsteps worked just as well.

"Hullo," he said, "anything exciting happen while I was away?"

"Nothing at all," said Harry, returning his smile. "It's been pretty quiet."

"Well, don't get too complacent. Remember: _constant vigilance!" _He wagged a warning finger. "By the way, I'm ravenous. You ready for some breakfast, Robbie?"

"Sure." 'That name takes a little getting used to,' thought Harry.

They took breakfast quickly, then strolled out of the Everglade Inn into the deserted, wind-swept streets of Hillsdale. When they had left the graveyard the day before, Moody had given Danny strict instructions not to let Harry out of his sight. The elder boy, however, was not the type to stay in one place for long. Whenever they weren't with Moody, Danny was usually off somewhere, examining pictures on the walls, opening locked doors and poking around in the other rooms. Mr. Morrow, the old, long-faced innkeeper, never knew a thing of course. But even if he did, Harry thought he would not have done much protesting. One thing Harry had found out about Danny, he was the kind of person people had a hard time saying no to. The night they had arrived at the inn (a large, ornate place two blocks away from the cemetery) Mr. Morrow had met them at the door and said, with much apologies, that he could not accommodate guests that night.

"Hold on now," Danny had said, "before we knocked I looked up at your second floor and didn't see a single lit window. Which means you've got at least one vacant room, right?"

"Sir," Mr. Morrow had replied, fidgeting, "I regret to say that my inn has recently shut down. I've not seen guests in nearly a year."

"Then you should re-open, don't you think, now that two have turned up on your doorstep?"

"But sir...I'm truly sorry, but it's just not possible. You simply cannot stay..."

"What? An inn that turns down paying customers? Completely unheard of!"

The innkeeper was perhaps thrice as old as Danny, but he had flushed at these words like a schoolboy caught without his homework. Harry had thought of staying elsewhere, maybe even camping out on the outskirts of town, but Danny said, "What's your name, sir?"

"...Morrow, Richard Morrow, sir."

"Good. Now Mr. Morrow, my name is Daniel Oaks and this is my assistant Robert. We are herbologists and are here on the behest of the Ministry of Agriculture to look for a suitable area to grow experimental fast-growing jungolubes." Danny had whipped out his wallet and flashed a strange-looking badge at Mr. Morrow's face. Before the elder man could take a good look, Danny had stuffed it back in his pocket. "You can aid us in this important and terribly stressful task by providing us lodging for, say, two weeks or less—depending on how fast we work—and of course you will be more than compensated for your troubles. Cash, up front. Plus the gratitude and commendation of the British government."

"Sir," the innkeeper had mumbled, "this town...this town is no place for visitors." His voiced had dropped even more as he added. "It's dangerous here, sir. Strange things have happened. I really think it best if you go to the next one—"

"That's simply not possible," Danny had replied. "It's night, the next town's miles away and our transportation will be back for us two weeks hence. Whatever danger it is you're talking about, you need not worry for our sakes. We do a good job taking care of ourselves. Now, why don't you show us in and we can talk about this 'danger' over a cup of hot tea while sitting near a good-sized fire."

Mr. Morrow looked right about out of protests. "I really cannot...I have no chambermaids...no room's ready...the sheets have not been turned..."

"Mr. Morrow, do we look like royalty? We work for the government. Whatever you have's got to be better than what we usually get." Harry had caught Danny's sidelong wink as he had handed their bags over to the bewildered man. "Besides, a dirty bed's a deal better than a dirty sidewalk, as my grandpa used to say. I assure you that my companion and I will require minimal assistance straightening up our own rooms."

Harry thought back on all this with a smile. He turned to Danny as they walked and asked him what in the world jungolubes were.

"Haven't the foggiest," chuckled Danny. "But if you can think of a better excuse for poking around town, I'd like to hear it."

"But how are we going to pay for our rooms?"

"No worries: I've got some Muggle pounds right here. I provide a supply of eggs for a local grocery back in Evensdale. The owner thinks I have a huge poultry business somewhere out of town. He doesn't know that they're from a dozen enchanted chickens!" Danny gave another laugh.

"You _enchanted_ your chickens?"

"Yeah. Makes them lay eggs twice as fast."

"Won't the Ministry—"

"They don't know a thing. And let's keep it that way, shall we?"

"All right," replied Harry, grinning. "But Moody probably doesn't like that at all, does he?"

"Are you kidding? He once threatened to turn me in, the old badger. Never did though. I dunno, he must've known what it's like to go hungry. See, even if I have a job as a private detective, I have to find a way to put food on the table when the workload's light." He gave a wide grin. "And Nap's a hungry bugger, let me tell you."

Harry laughed as he remembered the niffler. "Yeah, it must be tough living on your own. And I thought going through Hogwarts is hard enough for anyone."

Silence followed the remark. Harry gave his companion a sidelong glance and was surprised to see the humor drain out of Danny's grey eyes. He blinked, belatedly remembering Moody's warning not to mention Hogwarts to Danny. He was about to ask if there was something wrong when the other boy nodded at something directly ahead of them.

"I reckon that's the place we're looking for."

The archive stood by itself east of the town center. Compared to the others beside it, the building was squat and squalid, and had seemingly been closed for months. The two of them made their way up its stone steps to the entrance, it's wide double doors under lock and chain.

"Well," said Danny as he rubbed his hands, "breaking and entering, one of my favorite activities." He turned to Harry and said, "You want to do the honors, or shall I?"

"I can do it, thanks."

Harry pointed his wand at the lock and said, "_Alohamora._" It fell open and he caught it before it fell onto the ground.

Dead silence greeted their entrance into the archives. Harry looked around in despair. The archives looked small on the outside, but it actually housed twelve long bookshelves, each six levels tall. Cobwebs were strung between them like silken nets, swaying with the breeze blowing in from the smashed windows. A thick layer of dust covered the study tables. Hermione would throw a fit if she ever saw this place. Madam Pince would have a nervous breakdown.

"Your move, Robbie," Danny said, pinching his nose shut.

Harry sighed and said, "We can start by looking for compilations of the local newspaper. That way we can find out what happened here." He started rolling up his sleeves. "Let's get to work."

When they finally left the building, the dull orange sun had slid behind the darkening western hills. All around them, lampposts woke up blinking, barely discernable halos forming around their heads as a thin evening mist crept through the streets. They started back; Moody had instructed them to be at the inn before sunset.

It was just as well. The newspaper section had been almost completely destroyed by age and moisture, but what little information Harry had found was enough to chill his blood. He hoped his recent discoveries were worth the trouble. If it helped them find where the Crystal was…

Rubbing his eyes, he took the steps down to the main street of Hillsdale. Beside him, Danny stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Let's not do that again, okay? If I had asthma I'd be dead by now—"

"Shhh!" Harry grabbed his shoulder, pointing at the bench across the street.

An old man slouched there, head bowed and chin touching his chest. By his uniform, badge and the tall oval hat beside him on the bench, Harry could tell he was one of the local policemen.

Danny eased his hand off of his wand. "Looks like he's asleep. Come on, we'd better make a break for it."

"No, just a minute," said Harry, and began descending the stairs.

"What're you doing? Hey— !" cried Danny, leaping down after him.

Harry crossed the street and approached the old man. He wish he'd thought of this before, asking a policeman.

"Sir?" he said. "Excuse me, sir?"

The policeman did not move at first, then he wearily opened his eyes and raised his head; it was devoid of hair, even of eyebrows. A befuddled expression crossed his face as he saw the Harry and Danny standing before him.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," Harry went on, "but we're visitors here and we need some help. We're doing some research for the Ministry and we would like to ask you a few ques—"

"This town is cursed," rasped the old man.

Harry blinked.

"What did you say?" asked Danny.

"Cursed," he repeated in that ancient, toneless drone. "You shouldn't be here. Finish your business and leave as soon as you can. I say this not for my sake but for yours—leave." With an effort, he got to his feet and put on his hat.

"What do you mean this place is cursed?" Harry asked. "What happened here?"

The old man would not look at them again. He had his hat low over his eyes. "Because we let him get away with it. We let him get away and she cursed us for it."

"_She?_"

His grey hands reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, and for one wild moment Harry thought he was going to bribe them to get out. But the old man only took out a tattered piece of folded paper and handed it to them.

"You must leave," the old man repeated. "As soon as you can." He turned and started walking away.

Danny watched him go. "I had a theory once," he said, "that only loonies choose to become cops. I think there's a book in here somewhere. Well, what's that he gave you?"

Harry unfolded the paper and read it silently. After a minute he said, "I think it's time we go see Moody about this."

While Harry and Danny took up residence in the Everglade, Moody set up camp in the abandoned house just across the street. He stayed on the second floor, in a room directly facing the inn. Harry supposed he slept during the day and kept watch on them at night. Doing so would not be a problem, given the power of Moody's eye.

They found him in his room, sitting on a stool with his pipe in hand and his Dark Detectors scattered around him like encircling wagons. "This isn't a camp," muttered Danny, "it's a bloody circus." They carefully picked their way through the devices, which spun and hummed and glowed at their feet.

Moody was listening to a radio beside him, but turned it off and got up as Harry and Danny approached. "Well," he said, "did you find anything in that rat-hole of a library?"

"We did," Danny replied, "but how'd you know it was a rat-hole?"

"I scouted the place out before you even woke up. Proper procedure." Moody picked up a bucket and held it up to Danny. "Now take this and get me some water from the inn. Faucets here don't work anymore."

Danny scowled at him. "Why didn't you get any yourself?"

"Because I'd give your innkeeper a bleeding heart attack—any more stupid questions?"

"I wasn't hired to be a serving boy," grumbled Danny, but he took the bucket and stalked out of the room.

"Have a seat, laddie," Moody said to Harry. "There's something I think you should hear. Didn't want that big lug around asking questions." As Harry sat on another stool, he saw that Moody hadn't even lit his pipe. There was a hiss of static as the old man twisted the dial of his radio, then the announcer's voice came on.

"…_details have been sparse as of now, but by all appearances some kind of a battle had been fought in the city of Portsmouth early this morning. Muggle citizens have reported hearing strange noises at around 6:00 AM and lasting for some forty minutes. To quote one Muggle woman—'we heard shouting, then loud explosions, and we saw some men dressed in black robes and hoods running down the street, and there were these terrible growling sounds, like we were surrounded by tigers or something, but we saw nothing at all.'"_

Harry felt his heart race at these words. His thoughts immediately turned to Sirius and Remus—were they both all right?

"_Even more disturbing reports state that members of Portsmouth's wizarding community—some one hundred civilians—seemed to have disappeared, including WWN's media people based there. The Ministry of Magic is not giving out details and denies that this is some sort of attack, but have appealed for calm and assured everyone that a Law Enforcement team has already been sent to Portsmouth to investigate this occurrence. In the meantime, we shall await further details—"_

Moody shut of the radio and faced Harry. The firelight drew odd shadows onto his mutilated face.

"The Ministry won't even be able to get _into_ Portsmouth. By now the Death Eaters would've blocked all attempts to enter through magical means. I've seen it before.

"The Order has an outpost guarding Portsmouth. About two dozen men, based in a small pub in the Southsea area. I knew them. Young, brave, battle-ready. Now I don't even know if any of them are still alive." He shook his head, grey hair falling over his eyes. "By the news I've heard, we lost. Badly."

"Was...was either Sirius or Remus..." Harry found he couldn't finish the question.

"Don't worry," said Moody, getting up. "They were stationed miles away from there. Up north. A place we call The Front."

Harry felt relief flood into him, but Moody began pacing about the room. "Dumbledore knew something like this would happen. Damn that Fudge! Couldn't find his own arse if he didn't have an aide pointing it out for him." He lit his pipe, fixed both his eyes on Harry. "This only means we've got to work faster. Well, what've you got? Anything on this mystery disease we heard about from your innkeeper?"

"I—Yes, I did," said Harry, pulling out his notes. "According to the records and newspaper clippings in the archive, the disease broke out in mid-June, 1994."

"Hrn. Any clue to what sort of sickness it was?"

"No one knows for sure," replied Harry as he checked another page. "It first came to the Hudson family—the youngest of three children caught it. At first the parents thought it was just hay fever, but as the week passed she became weaker and weaker until she finally died. Then the other two children caught it, and later Mr. and Mrs. Hudson as well.

"The entire family died weeks later, and when symptoms appeared on more residents, people panicked and called in a group of doctors from London. They couldn't agree on what the disease was—some said it was cholera, others tuberculosis. When one of them fell ill, they all fled back to the city, calling for a quarantine of the town.

"While that was happening, people were leaving Hillsdale in droves. Then they found something startling. Those who had gotten sick and left town for treatment recovered in just a few days. Only those who stayed worsened until they died."

Moody stopped walking, his forehead creased in concentration. "Only those who stayed?"

"Yes." Harry stared at Moody, hoping the old man would come up with a quick answer to the riddle. But after several moments the old man merely said, "Anything else?"

"Well...we met someone on the way back here, an elderly policeman. We found him sitting by himself on a park bench." He detailed the encounter to Moody, then reached into his pocket and handed over the piece of paper he had been given.

It was a newspaper clipping, tattered and yellow with age. Moody read it out loud.

_**Grave Robbery in Hillsdale**_

Residents walking to church yesterday morning were aghast to find the grave of Leah Wellington Evans completely unearthed and her coffin thrown open. This shocking display of barbarism has ignited a manhunt for the perpetrators of the crime.

"It was horrible, horrible!" wept Ms. Clarice Moulding, a family friend. "How could they, those monsters! It was all she had left after her husband passed on, and they had the gall, the audacity to steal it from her!"

Further investigation reveals what 'it' was: Mrs. Evans's ruby brooch, a family heirloom that had been dear to her in life. Mrs. Moulding, who had been a frequent visitor of the Evans household, is currently being questioned further on this matter.

Mrs. Evans's husband William passed away in 1980. Of three children, Petunia and Warren survives her. Lily, the youngest, died in 1981.

Inspectors say that "the marble headstone had been smashed, the dirt shoveled aside to expose the coffin, which was then forced open with a sharp implement. The perpetrators have not left physical evidence of themselves." Police are still combing the area for additional clues.

As if disturbing the dead and robbery were not enough, the criminals added insult to injury by committing unbridled acts of vandalism at the churchyard. Additional police reports state that the

Moody eyed the end of the article, which looked as if it had been gnawed on by rats. "Can you describe the man who gave this to you?" he asked.

"He wasn't very tall," replied Harry, "about an inch shorter than me. He was bald, didn't even have eyebrows. And he looked pale and very drained, like he was…he was…"

"Waiting to die?"

Though taken aback by the expression, Harry nodded.

"Yeah, that's the feeling I got from the other residents here." Moody sat down on the stool again. Smoke fled from his nostrils. "I've been watching them all day today. Some just stand about looking like all the life's been sucked out of them." His real eye narrowed. "And they're all old folk, no young ones. Disease must've scared most everyone away, leaving only those who're brave, stupid or too old to leave."

"There's something else," said Harry, pointing at the article. "It's written on the back."

Moody turned it around in his hand. _The Hillsdale Gazette, June 12, 1994_, was scribbled on the other side.

"The grave was robbed in the middle of June," said Harry, "that was around the same time the disease broke out."

"You never heard about any of this while you were living with your aunt?"

"No. I don't think she kept contact with my grandmother. She never even mentioned her to me."

Moody eyed the article, quietly thinking, then said, "Let me keep this for now." He slipped it into his pocket.

Harry thought hard. Was this town really cursed? And if it was, was it the Evans's means of seeking revenge? But they were all Muggles except for my mother and she had died before all this had happened. My grandmother couldn't have done it by herself. But if not them, then who?

Moody puffed on his pipe for a while, then said, "Looks like our next lead's this Mrs. Moulding."

"Could she have done it?" asked Harry. "She knew what was in that grave in the first place…"

"It's possible, but not likely," replied Moody.

"Why not?"

"Because, lad, this isn't an ordinary case of thievery! Why go through all the trouble just to steal a piddling little brooch? And why just one grave? Why not search a few more for heftier scores? No, the thief knew what he was looking for. He wanted that particular brooch for a reason good enough to rob it from the dead. And that would be..."

"...He knew about the Crystal," finished Harry, his spirits plummeting even as he spoke. "It must've been a wizard, someone who knew the Crystal's powers!"

"That's likely," Moody agreed, "but why would he want it?"

"I don't know," said Harry. This time he got up to pace. "The Crystal can only work with someone from my bloodline, right? But Dumbledore said that the Evans were the last ofVolarius's descendants. And Aunt Petunia said my Mum was the only witch in the family...unless..." He came to a halt. "Unless they were all wrong."

Moody raised a scraggy brow.

"What if there's another wizard from Volarius's line?" Harry whispered, realizing his worst fear. "And what if he's in league with Voldemort?! Then...then...Voldemort's behind what's happened to this town. He might have the Crystal. He might be planning to use it on me!"

Moody pointed at Harry's forehead. "First of all, has your scar been hurting lately?"

Surprised, Harry touched his fingers to his scar. "No…it hasn't. Not since before we came here."

"You had any nightmares yet?"

Harry shook his head.

"That's our best indicator that the Dark Lord's not here," said Moody. "Second, my Dark Detectors have been getting nothing but static. Third, while we're not infallible, there've been no reports from the Order of any Death Eater activity around these parts. Fourth, the Crystal was stolen nearly two years ago. From what I've heard Voldemort couldn't even feed himself then, let alone dig up a grave and wreck a whole cemetery."

Harry thought it over, and it made sense. Maybe the Dark Lord wasn't on to them, at least not yet. "But if not Voldemort, then who?"

"That," said Moody, tapping the ashes from his pipe, "is what we've to find out.

"I'll need you to find out if our Mrs. Moulding's still lives here. Get her address, or get a clue where she went. Possibly you can find it in the archives. Otherwise, try looking through some of the abandoned houses for a phonebook. Meanwhile, I'll keep track of the Dark Army's movements. You never can tell with these things. Something tells me our position's gotten worse rather than better."

"Okay," said Harry.

"One more thing," said Moody, "that old cop you spoke to…"

"Yes?"

"If you meet him, don't talk to him again."

Harry gaped at him. "What? But why not? He already helped us…"

Moody shook his head. "We can't take chances, boy. The closer we get to the truth, the higher the stakes we play. Tread lightly, and stay vigilant." He paused, then added, "And keep that milksop with you at all times. At the very least, he's a good distraction."

"I heard that, Cue-Ball!" someone shouted from below. "If you're so concerned about his safety, why don't you get off your butt and start following us around?"

"Just get that bucket up here, and be quick about it!" Moody yelled back.

"Right, right, I'm hurrying…Whoops, tripped on the stairs and spilled a quarter of it! Too bad…Whoopsie-daises, there goes another quarter!"

Harry turned away to hide a grin. Moody was gritting his teeth. "See the things I have to put up with?" he said to Harry. "You go on to the inn and to bed. We'll see about our leads tomorrow."

When he was finally alone, Moody reached into his trunk and pulled out a device that resembled a small gas lamp. He lit the device with his wand, and the nozzle blossomed into a bright blue flame.

"You there, Albus?" he said.

The fire crackled and shifted, and the face of the Hogwarts headmaster appeared. Dumbledore's face was placid, but the deepening lines on his face showed his fatigue.

"_Yes, Alastor, I'm here. What news?"_

The old Auror did not answer he immediately. He bowed his head for a while, as if to come up with the right words, then he said, "I just heard about what happened at Portsmouth…"

At this, Dumbledore's eyes turned sad. "…_Ah."_

"Were there…any survivors from our side?"

"_We have one, just one. Ferris Perkinson. He was not at The Watchtower at the time, having gone to visit his mother in another part of the city. He arrived there just as the Death Eaters commenced their attack. From his account, we know they used Disillusionment Charms to hide themselves from Muggle eyes. Remus and Arabella are with him at the moment, asking more questions." _He paused, then said, "_His news about what attacked his comrades were...disturbing. I will let you know the full details once Remus and Arabella have finished with their reports."_

"I see. Perkinson, eh? I remember him, I think. Short fellow. Rather pimply. He was...the only one?"

"…_I'm afraid so."_

"Those men...I trained most of them myself."

"_I am sorry, Alastor."_

"'Course, we all knew what we were getting into. 'Live with death in your heart,' that's what we Aurors say. I told them that once. They knew what they had to do." He paused. "If only they weren't so young..."

"_The godland shall remember them, my friend, as will we. I shall do what we can. I've asked Lyle to send letters to their families."_

"The right thing to do, of course, yes," said Moody distractedly. He took another drag from his pipe before putting it out. For a time, the two old men sat silently at either end of the line.

Then Dumbledore abruptly said, "_I've not mentioned this to you yet, but I've managed to change the leadership of the Order._"

Moody quickly latched onto the new topic. "Did you? And here I was thinking you were all talk about that. Well, who's the unlucky bugger?"

"_Lyle, of course."_

"Lionel Bishop?! Isn't that something!" Moody cackled and slapped his knee. "Knew that boy had it in him! How's he handling things now?"

"_He's quick, Alastor. He's had our units occupy outlying towns and villages near Portsmouth and tried to evacuate as many wizards as possible out of Southhampton."_

"Good. That's the next logical target. War's in good hands at least. We need to strike back as soon as possible. I wish I could be helping out at the frontlines right now…"

"_You'll get your chance, Alastor, as soon as this mission is done."_

"Right then," Moody rubbed his hands, then proceeded to report his discussion with Harry. On the other end, Dumbledore listened intently, asking questions every now and then.

When he finished, Dumbledore asked, "_Well, what's our next step, in your opinion?"_

"Think we're going to have to pull out soon, that's what," said Moody. "The Crystal's trail is already more than a year old, and now that the Dark Army's on the move we've got ourselves a shorter time limit. Portsmouth's some fifty miles southwest of here, and those Death Eaters are as slippery as leeches. I'd rather not risk the boy out of Hogwarts. We should clear out of here as soon as our leads our exhausted."

There was another moment's silence.

"Well, what do you say?"

"_I believe you should stay for now. The two weeks we agreed upon is sufficient."_

"You certain about that?"

"_I am. Without Apparating, it will take the Dark Army at least three days to march there on foot, assuming they decide to. Now with the Order in the immediate vicinity we can hold them off even longer. Also, I trust the boy. If there's something worthwhile there, he'll find it. Keep looking. Should you find a lead, follow it."_

"Alright then. Two weeks. Then I bring him back." Moody paused, then said, "I need to ask you something."

"_Yes?"_

"What about the girl? You talked to her yet?"

"_Not yet, I'm afraid, as I've just returned from the Summit."_

"She's a breach in security. Can't have her walking around knowing our secrets. Perhaps a Memory Charm…"

"_Let me worry about Virginia Weasley, Alastor. I will speak with her shortly. She will not risk Harry's safety, I assure you."_

"Fine then. I hope you know what you're doing."

"_I do. Take care, my friend."_

After their goodbyes, then Moody sat alone in the dark, deep in thought.

"Clarice Moulding," he murmured. "Guess we'll be paying you a visit very soon."

Harry spent the next day at the archives, looking for something—anything—remotely resembling a list of residents. But the archives had yielded all it could for them, and once again Harry trudged back to the inn with bleary eyes and dusty hands.

The next day he walked the whole length of town, looking for people he could question. This time he also went to the police station, asking about the case of the grave robbery and if they had a directory of addresses. None of these did any good. The townsfolk would look at him suspiciously, then turn away when he mentioned the incident. The police were even less useful, guardedly asking him what he would want such information for. The old policeman who had helped them was not there.

Again, Harry trudged back to the inn defeated. He was starting to lose hope. _If I fail here, _he thought, _it means Voldemort gets to do whatever he wants. It means I lose my one chance at stopping him. It means I would be failing everyone._

_But what can I do? What else can I do?_

"Danny?" Harry said, stopping in his tracks.

"Yep?" Danny came to a halt, surprised at the gleam in the other boy's eyes.

"Could you teach me to duel?"

"Eh? Teach you?"

"Yeah. All I know are some basic curses and a Shielding spell. I'd like to learn how to duel properly. My last teacher, erm, didn't do too good a job with teaching me."

"He was lousy at dueling?"

"He was lousy in general."

Danny scratched his ear. "What do you need it for?"

"That dark wizard I was telling you about. He might come after me, you know. I may have to know how to…to defend myself. Can you help me?"

Danny hesitated, then said, "I don't know, Robbie."

"What do you mean, you don't know? You not saying I can't do it…?"

"I don't know if you're ready for serious dueling, is what I mean. You're what, sixteen?"

"I'm old enough! How old were you when you leaned how to duel?"

Danny shook his head, smiling. "Let's not use me as a standard, it's not very fair." He took Harry by the shoulders and began walking him back to town. "Look, just leave the trouble-makers to Moody and me. You keep your mind on the business at hand."

Harry angrily shook off Danny's hands. "Listen," he said, staring the taller boy in the eye, "that wizard doesn't want to just kill me. He wants to hurt my friends and anyone I care about. I don't want to stand by as the same thing that's happened to my parents happens to them. I want to do something about it. I want to know how to fight. Can't you teach me how if you're as good as you say you are?"

Danny had his arms crossed, looking around at his feet, the trees, the night sky overhead, anywhere but Harry. But finally, his eyes lit up.

"All right, then."

The frown left Harry's face. "You will?"

"Sure, Robbie. We can start now, in fact."

"Now?"

"It's simple, really." Danny held out both hands, palms up. "Put your hands on mine."

Nodding, Harry did so. He quickly regretted it.

WHACK!

Harry drew back with a cry, cradling the back of his right hand. Danny had slapped it so hard his skin burned red. "What was that for!?"

"This is the first thing you learn," said Danny, bringing his palms up again. "Improving hand-eye coordination."

"You call THIS training?!" Harry cried. "Are you serious?!"

"I'm absolutely serious. I thought you wanted to learn." Danny's face was straight. Too straight.

"This is stupid!"

"No it isn't."

"It's a bloody game!"

"It's training."

"Never mind, forget I said anything!" Harry heaved a disgusted sigh and walked past him.

Mr. Morrow greeted them as they walked into the inn. Unlike all the other townsfolk, he had warmed up to them and actually started enjoy their company. Harry pitied him; it must've been terribly lonely, living alone for months on end.

"How was your trip today?" he asked them. "Did you plant any of your experimental crops?"

"Unfortunately, we haven't found any suitable place just yet, but thanks for asking," Danny replied. "I wish we could find one, so we can get off your back already." He took off his scarf and coat. Harry did the same.

"Oh, don't you worry about it. It's no bother for me at all." He took their coats and hung them by the door. "You know," he went on, "after two decades of running this inn, I've gotten quite used to having people around. When everyone left, it was difficult for me to get by…I don't mind saying so…"

The idea suddenly came to Harry. "You've been working here for twenty years, sir?"

"That's what I said, yes," said Mr. Morrow, a hint of pride in his voice.

"You must know a lot of people in town then."

"That I do."

"Well, maybe you can help us. Do you know someone named Clarice Moulding?"

The innkeeper's brows furrowed. "Clarice…Clarice Moulding…Yes, by Jove, I do know her! Used to see her in the grocery shop every now and then. That is, before all the trouble with the contagion started." His face darkened a moment.

Harry's heart gave a hopeful leap. "Does she still live here?"

"She does. Don't see her very often, though."

"I don't suppose you have her address? She's a distant cousin of my mother and I'd love to visit her."

"Is she? Well, hang on a bit. I think I have a directory here somewhere." He walked off into an adjoining room.

"Well, gut me like a fish," said Danny, dropping into a chair. "Now why didn't we ask _him_ first before we went traipsing around town like a couple of damned fools?" He collapsed onto a chair and stretched his legs. Harry didn't answer. He felt his heart beating in his throat as they waited.

Five minutes later, Mr. Morrow came back, a small notebook in hand. "Here we go," he said, handing it to Harry. "She's in there all right. No phone number though. Must've had it disconnected some time ago. There's also a map on the inner side of the cover. You'll find her easy enough, I wager."

Harry opened the notebook and scanned the names under 'M'. He found what he was looking for.

Moulding, Clarice … # 22 Winter Solstice

"Yes, here she is. Thank you. Thank you so much, sir!"

"Now, now," said the innkeeper, concern in his voice. "I wouldn't hurry off to meet her just yet, you know. She's not too keen on visitors lately. Because, well, you know… there'd been some trouble some time back…"

He started explaining Ms. Moulding's connection with the grave robbery, but Harry barely listened. His eyes were scanning then names under 'E'. His luck held; there was only one entry of such a name.

Evans, Mr. and Mrs. William … # 12 Strawberry Spring

Harry looked up and gave Danny a meaningful look. The elder boy took his cue. He got up and put a hand on Mr. Morrow's arm, interrupting the innkeeper's story.

"I'd like to hear more of this tale of yours, sir, but my throat's a bit parched. I don't suppose we could take a look at your wine cellar? An established place such as this must sport a number of good brands, eh?"

"Hah, I'm glad you asked!" cried Mr. Morrow. "I have just the sauce to wet your beak, my boy. This way…"

He chatted on as they walked out of the room. They had barely left when Harry barreled out the front door, neglecting to even put on his coat. He sprinted all the way to the house across the street, up its rickety stairs, and into Moody's room, forgetting to knock. The old Auror was sitting in a chair, and raised his head as Harry entered.

"I've been watching from here," said Moody. "I take it that's the directory we're looking for."

Harry handed him the notebook. "Now we can go talk to her about the Crystal. I hope she's—"

"Hang on," Moody said, studying the map. "Let's not rush this. First, let's wait until tomorrow. No point bothering an old lady at so late an hour."

Harry nodded reluctantly.

"Second, you and Danny stay at the inn. I'll go ahead and check this place out."

This time, Harry gaped at the old man. "What? You won't let me go there? But… why?"

Moody scratched his chin, staring down at the address book. "Like I said, laddie, the closer we get to the truth, the higher the stakes."

'He's taking this bodyguard thing a bit too far,' thought Harry. "You don't suppose it's going to be dangerous…"

"It's a hunch, nothing more," replied Moody, "but my life had sometimes hung on just a hunch."

Harry thought it over. He had wanted to go visit Clarice Moulding straight away, but he realized there was something _else_ he could do in the meantime.

"Fine then," he said. "I'll stay in tomorrow."

"There's a good lad." Moody handed the notebook back to him.

"Won't you be needing this?"

"Nope. Got it all in here." Moody tapped his forehead. "You go get some sleep. I'll take care of everything from here."

There was a reason Harry readily agreed with Moody's plan, and he acted on it as soon as he saw the old Auror leave the house across the street. With Danny in tow, they made their way east of town, to Number 12 Strawberry Spring. Harry found the place easily enough, but did not at all like what he saw there.

The Evans's small, four-roomed home, perhaps once a cozy, charming place, now stood empty, damp and decrepit. In fact, it looked worse than all the other houses. Not a single window remained intact, and from the way the holes looked it was evident that they had been stoned. The shingles had been scattered on the weed-infested lawn, the rotting fence battered like broken teeth. A dented mailbox lay on its side like a beaten dog.

Even though he knew how scared these people were, Harry could not help feeling angry at how they had mistreated his mother's house.

"Robbie?"

Harry shook himself from his reverie.

"I'm alright," Harry said as he faced Danny. "I was just thinking."

Danny nodded, then looked at the house. "Shall we go inside then?"

They searched from room to room, cellar to attic. The entire place was picked clean of furniture and other belongings; only dirt and cobwebs decorated the walls, and rust lined the hinges and knobs of every door. The shelves were empty of books. Water stains traced odd shapes on the peeling wallpaper. In the bedroom the found a rusty metal frame but no mattress. As the hours passed, the entire floor became covered with the dusty tracks of their feet. It was mid-afternoon when they finally emerged into the open air again.

As Harry stood on the sidewalk, staring at abandoned house, he found it hard to imagine that anyone had once lived in this place, that his mother had once lived and laughed here for ten years before she left for Hogwarts. In the end, he realized he didn't really come to her old house to look for a clue to the Crystal's whereabouts. He came to find something that once belonged to her. Something he could take and safely keep with him, just so he could prove that her life here had not been a dream so easily broken by time. But there was nothing. This house was bereft of memories.

"Don't let it get you down, Robbie," Danny said, patting his shoulder. "Even if we don't find what we're looking for, so what? There're a hundred other ways to stop evil uncles, aren't there?"

"I suppose," said Harry, not really paying attention.

"Absolutely. Now tell you what. I found some really good wines down in Mr. Morrow's cellar last night. Let's go for some drinks when we get back, okay?"

"I don't drink. Thanks anyway." Harry gave the Evans house one last look, then started walking back to the inn.

"Damn," muttered Moody. "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

He had been standing for nearly two hours in a shadowy alley, cautiously watching for movement from the house across the street. Number 22 Winter Solstice lay in the western part of town, some hours' walk from The Everglade Inn. Getting there was the easy part. It was the waiting that was driving him crazy.

He had planned on taking no more than an hour staking out the place, perhaps even take a look inside the house itself. But the yard was too open and there were people in the neighboring houses. One man even went out and spent hours on end staring up at the dead tree in his yard. Not wanting to risk exposing himself, Moody waited.

Now the evening was rolling down from the eastern hills, bringing with it its pale mists and its chilly wind. The house across from him looked utterly empty. No lights on, no smoke from the chimney, no movement in the windows. It did look inhabited though: the garden was free of weeds and a pile of dead leaves had been raked together in one corner. The house's white walls still stood upright, its windowpanes free of dust, the navy blue shingles on its roof intact. Yes, someone still lived in Number 22. Maybe the owner was simply out on business. Maybe she was taking a long afternoon nap.

Maybe.

It seemed so easy. A cop waiting on a bench outside the library, carrying some handy information in his wallet. An article guiding them to the one person who knew about the Evans, and even about the Crystal. Who, coincidentally, was still hanging around town. Not in his fifty-odd years with the Aurors did he meet such blind luck on a case. It was too convenient, too dazzlingly simple.

And that was the reason he made Harry and Danny stay behind at the inn, and he was alone here in the slowly darkening afternoon, freezing his arse off in the bare streets of this god-forsaken town. Every five minutes or so he would steal a glance at the Foe-Glass in his palm, but the mirror remained stubbornly hazy. Still, the alarms in his head did not cease their clanging. The longer the silence stretched, the louder they rang. _Damn, damn, damn_.

'A trap,' he thought, 'someone set a trap.' Someone was trying to lead them here. But who? Why?

The sun had completely set behind the western hills at quarter past seven. By then, Moody had had enough. If it was a trap, then let them spring it. They'd find him a very rough customer indeed.

He took out his wand, bent down, and cast a simple Silencing spell on the clawed foot of his leg. After a quick look around, he hurried across the street. He ignored the gate leading into the garden, skirting instead to the rear where the back door was. Near the edge of the garden he stopped and watched for movement. When nothing happened, he Disapparated, reappearing in the house's shadow, beside the back door. He froze again, listening. Still nothing. His hands touched the edge of the wooden wall.

He had investigated hundreds of buildings back in his heyday as an Auror. Not all of those activities had been Ministry-sanctioned, nor had they all included back-ups; some he had done for his own purposes. There was a little trick he sometimes employed when he went solo, a kind of mind game. He imagined he was being followed by an apprentice Auror—a_tyro_—in a form of on-the-job-training. These mental lectures helped him keep calm and focused. At the very least, pretending he wasn't alone kept his courage up.

'The first rule you should know about breaking into a house,' he silently told this apprentice, 'is that you never use to phrase _breaking into a house_. We Aurors _pay visits_. Use the other phrase and you'll have your badge revoked faster than you can say 'Abracadabra'. Got that?'

A nod from his imaginary partner.

'Good. Second rule is, look before you leap.'

The pupil of Moody's magical eye dilated, and the wall he was facing dissolved into a milky, translucent screen. The room beyond was both kitchen and dining room. Everything looked clean and well maintained. A small electric stove stood beside the sink, and against the wall was one of those refrigerator things. A ragged apron hung from a nearby chair. The small table at the center of the room had been set for one, and beyond it, another door that led into the hall.

His eye inched up and down the walls and the doorframe, looking for alarms, Muggle or otherwise. Finding none, he laid his hand on the cool metal doorknob and gave it a slight twist. Locked, of course, but he had no problem with that.

He pointed his wand at the knob, but suddenly froze. Something moved in the far corner of the room beyond.

A rat ran across the kitchen floor, the long coil of its tail snaking behind it. It stopped beneath the table and stood on its hind legs, nose twitching and sniffing the air. Moody grimaced. He hated rats, and instantly he thought of doing Mrs. Moulding a favor by getting rid of this unwelcome guest.

As if hearing this thought, the rat scuttled away from the table and vanished beneath the stove. Moody shrugged and cast Alohomora on the knob. The door quietly clicked open and he slipped inside.

The moon had risen above the eastern hills, giving him just enough light to see around the dark house. 'Now,' he told his student, 'let's get to the bottom of this. Keep quiet, and keep your eyes open.'

Silent as a shadow, Moody moved from one room to the next, searching for anything of interest. Everything seemed to be in order. Doors were shut, books neatly arranged on shelves. A grandfather clock kept time in the hall near the stairs to the second floor. Pictures lined the mantlepiece. Moody stopped and studied one.

'Look here. That's probably her to the right. And the family she's posing with...notice the red hair and the green eyes on the young daughters, and how one of them resembles the Potter boy. It's the Evans, all right. Our girl's more sentimental than superstitious, seeing she kept this picture.'

He moved on, and the more he looked, the more he disliked what he saw.

'Pay attention now,' he instructed. 'What do you see? Not a light on in any room, and someone had pulled down the blinds and closed the curtains. In the den there's some cold ash in the hearth and a half-finished cup of coffee on the table. Picture box's off, but see the little red light there? It's still plugged. Someone had been using it not too long ago. No, don't touch it, fool! Never touch anything 'less you have to. Leaves marks. Now follow me, and mind that table near you.'

In the hall near the front door, Moody found a little yellow slipper, lying by itself on the carpeted floor.

'Well, _tyro_, here's our first real clue. Think our quarry's the type to leave her slipper lying about? It's on its side, so she either kicked it off or dropped it. My guess is the latter, because…'

He dropped to one knee, examining the carpet on the floor. His eyes narrowed into slits.

'…Because she was grabbed and lifted. Here's another print on the carpet, too deep for an old woman to make. And there, near your foot..."

Moody picked up a tiny bit of crushed grass, less than an inch long, and held it to his nose.

'Dried up already. Could be a day old, maybe more. It smells strange...rotten. And he picked her up all right. High enough for her feet to dangle, then her slipper fell. May have strangled her…'

He got up and turned to the door, eyes wide and roaming.

'Look here. What do you see? What, give up already? There's nothing, nothing at all. No sign of forced entry, magical or otherwise. Her visitor may've been someone she trusted, else she wouldn't have the mind to open the door.'

The old Auror descended upon the carpet again, this time with his wand out. "_Lumos_," he whispered, and shone the light upon the floor.

'What do you make of these grooves on the carpet, eh? Bastard strangled her, then dragged her body this way...'

He followed the tracks, which were almost too slight to be seen by the naked eye, down the hall to the foot of the stairs.

'The Muggle—we can assume he's a Muggle since he didn't use magic—dragged her by the shoulders. These twin grooves on the carpet must be her heels, see? Looks like we've to go upstairs next. Come along. Tread light and slow now. The stairs don't have carpeting, and they may creak.'

Still keeping the beam of his light low, he quietly gained the steps, face turned up to watch the second floor. To his own ears, even his soft footfalls seemed to echo in the empty, silent house.

On the landing he found the second slipper, and bent to examine it.

'He didn't bother to hide anything, did he? Careless type, but efficient. No struggles from his victim. She didn't suffer long—'

Moody started at a whisper of movement from the floor above. He got up and whirled about at the same time, wandlight aimed high.

Two huge rats were perched on the second floor railing, watching him with glittering red eyes. Moody had to stop himself from shooting them down like ducks in a firing range. 'Blasted filthy little vermin! So you came back with your brother, eh? Get down here…'

The rats scampered back into the shadows when reached the next flight of stairs. Then a question came to him, one that had been in the back of his mind the moment he entered the house.

'What would rats be doing in a home as clean as this?'

He had not seen one warm-blooded animal in the entire town. There had not even been any rats in the abandoned house he was occupying (and he'd fully expected to do some extermination when he first moved in). Yet here they were, in this particular house.

'Passing strange, yes. We'd better find out once we're done here. For now we've got to get our bearings straight. No doubt we won't be getting any help from Mrs. Moulding, thanks to her unwelcome guest. The question now is…is he still here?'

His imaginary apprentice seemed very uncomfortable with this idea. But there was only one way to be sure.

Moody gained the steps all the way to the top, and flashed the light up and down the hall. All quiet. His magical eye scanned the three rooms about him. One was bathroom, the other two were bedrooms.

All of which seemed empty!

'Now what?' grated Moody.

His gaze fell upon the floor. The hall here was carpeted and the grooves were there again. They lead to a room to his right. Moody crept forward and stood before it.

'Right. Get your wand on guard. Pick your fastest spell; we're in close quarters here. Again, look before you leap. You ready?'

Behind him, his phantom student gave a nervous nod.

Moody put his hand on the knob and eased the door open. He entered what seemed to be a small guest bedroom. A single feather bed lay beside the opposite wall, flanked by two windows. The lack of pillows and quilts on the bed, and absence of items on the boudoir suggested it was not in use. Moody searched the entire room, but found nothing of interest.

Just as he was about to leave and examine the room across the hall, he heard it. Rustling sounds, from directly overhead. He stopped and looked up. _The attic._

He tried seeing through the paneling with his eye, but found it too dark too perceive much. A second later he spotted the trap door on the ceiling, near the corner of the room. 'No ladder,' he thought. 'Killer must've taken it up with him. If he's still hanging around, he's probably hiding up there. Now then…'

He traced several patterns into the air with his wand. Moments later a silvery ladder stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Moody stepped on it, testing it stability. Then he climbed all the way to the top.

Right before he opened the trap door, he silently told his student, 'You'd better stay here and keep me covered. I'll call if I need you.'

No dissenting votes there.

Moody pressed his palm against the door, took a deep breath, then pushed upwards. He expected resistance, something—maybe someone—blocking his way into the attic. But it gave way easily. Moody lifted it just enough to peer inside and his nose was immediately attacked by the smell of dust and age. Looking about, he saw only one small window on the wall to his right, letting in a little shaft of moonlight which fell upon a stack of cardboard boxes on the floor before him.

Moody eased the trap door open. Very cautiously, he made his way up, turning his wandlight this way and that. He saw more cardboard boxes, filled with musty old books and discarded photo albums. An unused candelabra lay on the floor. Moody started at what he looked like a human figure, but it was only a naked mannequin propped up against the wall. No one was here.

But there was a tall closet on the far wall of the attic.

Once he noticed it, Moody did not immediately turn to face it. Instead he made his way to the nearby window as if to look out onto the street. But before he did, he passed the light of his wand upon closet's wooden double doors.

The inside of the closet was completely dark. But when his beam of light passed it, for a split-second it shone through the crack between the doors. And in that slit of light his magical eye glimpsed another eye—pale, staring, and wide open!

Moody faced the window, but he was not looking at anything, not anymore. His magical eye was turned over and watching his back, ready for any sudden movement from the closet. His heartbeat sounded awfully loud in his ears. He focused, willing himself to be calm. 'Now', he thought, 'now I have to catch my quarry off guard.'

With a cry he whirled about and leaped towards the closet doors. He yanked them open and immediately stood aside, wand at the ready, mouth twisted into a snarl.

There was someone in there all right. Someone he had been meaning to find all along.

The body of Mrs. Moulding tilted forward, then collapsed face down onto the floor. For a moment, Moody stood there stunned. Then he got down on his knees and faced her up.

She was pale, haggard and very dead. Cobwebs were tangled in her mousy grey hair. Her sallow skin was ice cold and wrinkly, like the flesh of a rotting fruit. Her face was a mask of shock; mouth open in a silenced scream, sunken blue eyes wide and staring.

He had been right about her death, but wrong about her murder. There were no bruises on her throat. No marks at all on her skin.

_Wait a minute._

Moody's magical eye dilated as he peered closer. There was something, very slight, right there on her throat. It was some kind of illusion, but Moody saw right through it. And when he did, a cold tremor ran down his back. Now he knew who—or what—their adversary was.

He passed his hand over the poor woman's eyes to close them, and got to his feet. He had to get out of here and get back to the boys. Right now they may be in very grave danger.

The way back, however, was blocked.

At first, he didn't know what he was looking at. It seemed like several glowing cigarettes butts lying in the dark. Then he turned his light upon it and saw they were the glowing red eyes of huge rats. Dozens of them had quietly climbed up the trap door and surrounded it, with many more coming out of holes in the walls and the floor. Now they chorused in hungry squeaks, tails twitching like a forest of worms.

Moody stepped back with his wand held at the ready. With his other hand he reached into his pocket, drew out his miniature trunk and tossed it down between him and the rodents. It slammed full-size onto the floor.

The rat army was advancing, not seven feet away. Their chittering was a high-pitched hurricane.

"I've no time for you right now!" bellowed Moody over the din. "Get you gone!"

The rats reared back on their little legs, then charged.

"_Six!_" roared the old man. He bent over his trunk, even as the vermin fell upon him.

Harry jerked awake.

'I must've dozed off,' he thought, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His last memory had been lying down with his fingers laced behind his head, thinking about Hogwarts. One glance out the window told him it was full dark outside. He had been asleep for a couple of hours.

'I wonder if Moody's back yet.'

He got up, walked to the window and glanced at the house across the street. Not that he could actually see much; Moody probably had the windows blocked with those magic picture frames. 'I'm going to have to go there,' thought Harry, 'if I want any information.'

The faint sound of drunken laughter drifted up from the floor below. Danny had said he'd be investigating Mr. Morrow's wine cellar, and it sounded like he found what he was looking for. He must have convinced the old innkeeper to join him by now.

Harry's gaze drifted from the street to the cemetery on the hill. It was an ugly shapeless lump breaking the dark horizon, with only the tallest tombs visible above the web of vines and grass. Harry shivered at the memory of those smashed, defeated crosses, those headless angels in their robes of vine.

He was about to go back to bed when he noticed something.

He had been wrong after all—not all the statues had been harmed. Far off, atop a huge crypt, dimly lit by the moon but unmistakable, stood one angel with its head still intact. Its silhouette towered over the ornate marble grave at its feet.

Harry paused to stare at it. How could the vandal have missed that one? It stood in plain view from the graveyard path, not concealed by neighboring statues or obelisks, not even covered in vines. How odd.

Then the gibbous moon slipped free of the clouds and spilled its pale, ghostly light on the cemetery grounds.

A cold tremor ran down Harry's back, and every single follicle of hair it passed stood on its end. His eyes widened, his jaw fell slack, and he took an involuntary step backwards.

The moonlight fell on the silhouetted figure. Instead of feathered wings, a pair of huge, outstretched bat wings protruded from its back. And they were slowly moving, flapping and catching the night breeze. The figure turned its head towards him, and Harry could see the two glowing pinpricks of green it had for eyes. It was no angel. It was no statue.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, staring at the hideous apparition. It was crouching now on the roof of the crypt, still staring with those lit matches of jade. Then it leaped into the air. It was flying straight towards the inn. Towards his window.

Harry groped for his wand, even as his feet backpedaled to the door.

But the air was filled by the beating of great wings, and before a scream could rise from his throat his window was smashed open. Shards of glass pelted everywhere. Harry covered his face with an arm. Something dark and heavy descended upon him, its clawed hands reaching around his chest and across his face. A foul stench assaulted his nostrils and filled his head. He gagged, even as the creature, with its hideous strength, bore him bodily into the air and towards the window. Harry struggled, but it caught his neck in the crook of its arm, cutting off blood and breath. His last memory was that of his wand slipping from his grasp and clattering on the wooden floor. Then darkness consumed him.

_To be continued_

_Chapter IX: Into Darkness_

_And a mind, unknown and unrelenting, touched with his. In the next instant his eyes were filled with the image of a woman standing next to a tree. Her deep crimson robes revealed only pale grey hands that ended in sharp nails. Long red hair covered her face, but her eyes were visible. Green, piercing eyes that stared without blinking. Staring at him, into the depths of his mind._

_Then the light went out._


End file.
